


Ready For The Storm

by Calebski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post War, Soulmate AU, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 124,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Regulus flexed his feet, feeling the bite of his newish shoes and shaking his head. It was a bit of maudlin folly to be dressed as he was, in his best robes, his hair arranged just so. He doubted he would remain in such pristine condition by the end of the evening. More so, he doubted anyone would understand the significance even if he was found.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: After asking for some prompts for The Mixtape this amazing song by Dougie MacLean was brought to my attention by Kreeblim Sabs, and I came to adore it. So, another fic that was supposed to be a one-shot that just became something bigger as I began outlining. Here we go again, hope you enjoy.

_The lightning strikes and the wind cuts cold_  
_Through the sailor's bones, to the sailor's soul_  
_Till there's nothing left that he can hold  
Except the rolling ocean_

 _And I am ready for the storm_  
_Yes, sir, ready_  
_I am ready for the storm  
I'm ready for the storm_

Ready for the Storm / Dougie MacLean [1983]

* * *

Regulus Arcturus Black sat upright; his back was ramrod straight, and his shoulders squared as he perched on the end of his carefully made bed. His steely grey gaze was fixed dead ahead at the blank wall in front of him. His fingers were pressed into the hard edge of the mattress, as he furiously gripped the side.

He closed his eyes.

He closed out the deliberately bland room around him.

He closed his mind to all of the lingering doubts.

Instead, Regulus focussed solely on his breathing. Not the creeping tingle of fear that was crawling up his spine. He _needed_ to centre himself before he took the final step. Flippantly, he thought that arriving in an agitated state would be suicide, but that wasn’t really his concern. Death wasn’t what Regulus was running from; he just had to ensure he lived long enough to finish what he had to first.

Death was the only certainty he had left. Regulus told himself that he should be comforted by having at least some control over the _when_ , but he wasn’t sure he fully believed it. He had known too many people, from both sides of the war, that had fallen to the ground over the last year, some of them no older than him.

In truth, he had been hoping for a different path to present itself for some time. Regulus had found himself standing within a circle of those marked out as his equals, expecting to feel some sense of achievement, maybe even relief, _it was all supposed to be over now_ , everything he had endured had been to get to this point and yet it was a hollow victory. He could almost hear his brother laughing at him. His conscience told him that Sirius wouldn’t have done that, his brother wouldn’t have wanted to Lord his triumph. Regulus thought that the tiny voice hadn’t been paying attention.

He waved his hand over the pocket-sized frame that was next to him on the bed, ready to be placed inside his pack. The minute image of his austere parents melted away, leaving two young boys looking up at him, well, one was looking at him, the other was craning his neck to get a better look at the taller boy next to him in the frame. Both the boy’s hair was so dark it gleamed from the light of the camera flash, but apart from that one similarity, they were worlds apart.

The taller boy stood with a relaxed grace, looking as if he had just got out of bed. The other was regimentally put together, though he appeared to be trying to replicate the smirk of the older boy, with limited success.

Regulus waved his hand, and the boys disappeared again. He returned his gaze to the plain wall, flexing his hands against his thighs.

He had lived his entire life weighing and assessing each new situation he found himself in. Regulus had experienced a tremendous amount of change despite his relatively young age, and he had learnt early on the absolute importance of staying quiet. It was the easiest way to determine what was going on around him, and thus it enabled him to make the best decisions. Though he often only had the scope to make the best choice of a bad lot.

Somehow everything had become so muddled.

In many ways, Regulus supposed he should have been happy. He had been looking for something, some chink in his Lord’s armour to present itself. Something that would answer the lingering questions he had, something that would silence the screaming in the back of his mind, the nagging voices that kept telling him to look _harder_ , to uncover.

So he got what he wanted. It would be just his luck that the first time that had ever happened was when it delivered a path to certain death.

He was no coward, despite what Sirius might have thought, but brave or not Regulus couldn’t help wishing that the road ahead was less desolate. Not that he was tempted to be swayed from it, no, his resolution was firm. From the very moment Kreacher had landed back in his bedroom, near death and terrified, he felt he no longer had a choice.

Regulus tilted his head to the side and listened to the sounds of the house. Kreacher had been marching back and forth in front of his room all day, caught between thrusting his servitude onto him, trying to make himself useful, and attempting to act as if he wasn’t hovering. A small smile played at the edges of Regulus’ lips. At least he wasn’t going alone. The little elf may not have been much to anyone else, but he had shown Regulus true loyalty, more so than any other man or beast had in his entire life.

Regulus had waited up on the night his Lord had asked to borrow the elf, helping himself to his father’s stash of good whisky as the hours had spun around the clock. With every ticking minute, Regulus had become more agitated. He had known something was wrong from the off, but the sick feeling in his stomach only ratcheted as he continued to find an empty, temporary solace in the bottom of his glass.

When the pop he had been waiting for had finally sounded, uncommonly loud to his focused ears, Regulus ran, practised grace keeping his hurried movements silent.

Kreacher had ingested a truly unbelievable amount of water. It had taken nearly an hour for Regulus to clear his throat and silence his constant apologies long enough for him to get the basics of what had happened. His hands had tightened on Kreacher’s shoulders for a moment before he had walked into the garden, wordlessly directing his wand at one of his mother’s prized water features, and blowing it to smithereens.

Regulus had stood amongst the rubble for a long while, trying to decide what he could do next. _There had to be something_. To allow what had happened to pass might have just fractured the remains of his already cloudy morality, and then he really would be just like the rest of them — mindlessly following, braying at the other side like wild dogs tethered to their master’s feet, straining to be let off the leash.

Not for him.

Black’s had standards; warped standards, but standards all the same.

But then there was the other thing. It wasn’t just _what_ had happened. But what it all meant.

Regulus flexed his feet, feeling the bite of his newish shoes and shaking his head. It was a bit of maudlin folly to be dressed as he was, in his best robes, his hair arranged just so. He doubted he would remain in such pristine condition by the end of the evening. More so, he doubted anyone would understand the significance even if he was found. Severus would have he realised, and the thought gave him some small comfort.

Regulus had thought about telling his friend, but in the end, he had chased that thought away. Severus was enjoying the belonging, it was new for him, and while they may have known each other for an incredibly long time, neither could be sure of each other’s loyalties anymore. His final act of kindness was to tell the older boy nothing; that way there was no chance of repercussions for him later.

Somewhere in the distance, Regulus heard a clock begin its hourly chime, and he gathered the last of the items he had strewn on the bed, placing them carefully within the pack.  

Three weeks it had taken. Three weeks for Regulus to convince himself of what it was he was facing. He had tended to Kreacher carefully, seeing to the ample wounds that littered the small creature’s body before he had let him rest. When he had eventually come back around, Regulus had delicately propped the elf up against his bed and asked him to tell him again, _all_ that he remembered. He had listened attentively, and by the second time Kreacher retold the tale he had begun taking notes. The next day he went into his father’s library and locked himself inside.

Despite the obscurity of the magic Regulus hit upon the answer quickly. In the Black family library it was an easier task to start with the worst possible solution and work backwards, and that’s when he found out about making a Horcrux. It had all fit, Kreacher’s account and bits and pieces of information he had gathered over the last year or so, all of them pointing to their Lord having split his soul.

Almost as soon as he had hit upon a possible answer, Regulus discounted it immediately. Not through any false belief of his master’s  _humanity_ , he had seen beyond the handsome visage enough, he had knelt at the feet of his ire enough to know he had none, but still, this was… bleak.   

Two weeks, continuous research and a growing sense of dread later, Regulus reluctantly went back to the first answer. He forced himself to write the words in his journal, to acknowledge his grim acceptance. Then it was time to figure out what to do next.

Regulus was confident he was the only one who knew, he had looked into the minds of his associates often enough to do so without pause to find out for sure. By that point he had seen enough of their innermost selves not feel guilty about the action, only hesitation, some minds were not pleasant to flip through.

Regulus looked at the prepared pack sitting next to him. As hideous as Kreacher’s experience had been, it had told him everything he needed to know, he had waterproofed everything he would need. He felt a weight settle against his shoulder, one that had been there for what felt like a lifetime. It was up to him now. For all that Sirius and his band of friends might have been ‘fighting the good fight’, they had no idea what they were up against, no sense of the futility of their efforts.

They couldn’t win. Not yet. Not until Regulus had done what he needed to.  

His means were more  _subtle_ than his brothers. Being older now, and the halls of Hogwarts being a slightly more distant memory, thinking of a comparison between the two of them didn’t hurt Regulus quite so much. Since Graduation and his indoctrination into the inner walls of power, Regulus no longer held any surprise in his chest that Sirius had been sent to live under the banners of red and gold. That house represented everything that his brother was, heart on his sleeve, laugh in his throat, charge in and think about the consequences later. It was his true home. Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, a precaution against the tears that threatened. He _would not_ cry over this. His fingers tightened against his kneecaps, and he looked back at the plain wall again.

He hated his room, all white and crisp lines. He wondered what it would have looked like if Sirius had stayed at home, if he hadn’t had to be so  _perfect_. Regulus had held all trace of his personality inside himself for so long he had no idea what it would even look like if he let it out anymore.

In a way, this choice, this decision to act was his display of Black defiance.

This was his smoking, his motorcycle jacket and his tattoos.

This was to be his claim to freedom.

This way they could win, and hopefully, if _he_ employed some of the intellect that he seemed to wish to hide most of the time, Sirius would survive.

Regulus loved his brother; it would have all been so much easier if he hadn’t.

The raids he was instructed to carry out left him wracked with guilt and anxiety. Regulus always expected the next house to be where  _he_ was, to find him - the troubled boy that had taught him how to ride a broom - bound and broken at the bottom of the stairs, or tattered and bloody on the lawn.

He loved him, but he hated him at the same time.

Without Sirius’ influence, he would never have been contemplating something so foolhardy, and yet his brother might never even know. Regulus had toyed with the idea of telling him, letting his side know what they were up against, but he didn’t trust them enough to be able to handle it. He didn’t trust them to do the right thing. Whatever that was, he was sure he no longer knew.

Regulus shook his head and once again pressed his hands down onto his thighs. For days he had been checking and rechecking the mental list he had drawn up to ensure he had everything in order for. It wouldn’t do to write anything down, not unless it was heavily protected. Regulus thought of his journal. It had hurt when he realised he would need to leave that behind, his first idea had been to destroy it, but his vanity prevented him. Well, pride and a sense that it might be necessary one day. After placing every spell he could think of, and a few he invented, into it, he had handed it over to Kreacher who had sworn to hide it. The little elf had looked back at him, tears in his large eyes when he had given him that instruction. He knew what it meant. Regulus refused to dwell; there would need to be a way to pass on the knowledge if he didn’t make it back, when he didn’t make it back.

Regulus gasped as his mark began to burn, and he cursed his luck for a moment, but the searing pain dispersed quickly. His Lord didn’t need him today. Dispassionately he undid his polished silver cufflink and pushed up his sleeve back, looking at the twisting tattoo on his pale arm.

There was no going back now.

The door opened just a slither, and a reluctant Kreacher poked his head around the door. “Master Regulus,” he murmured, almost as if he did not want to be heard. “It’s time.”

Regulus nodded once, bringing his pack up over his shoulder and walking out of the door, pulling it shut behind him. His eyes glanced over the nameplate for a moment before he moved away.

The house was quiet, not that it was ever loud, not since Sirius had gone. His parents were attending some evening party or other; Regulus couldn’t remember the details. The pomp and circumstance that seemed to go on around them had all started to bleed together in Regulus’ mind. He had begged off, ‘too busy’, he had said. His mother had prattled on about him attending the next one, time to start looking at marriage contracts and the like.

He suppressed a shudder and then looked down at his clothes. Dressed for death his mind supplied. No marriage contracts where he was going. Every cloud.

* * *

“Boy.”

Regulus halted in the cramped hallway, and his shoulders sagged. He should have known this would happen. He sighed before he pivoted on his heel, taking a couple of steps back to face the portrait that had so bluntly summoned his attention.

The nameplate of highly polished old gold was barely legible in the darkened hall, but Regulus had no need to check the engraving, the name _Phineas Nigellus Black_ was well known to him. He arched a brow as he stood in front of the image of his great grandfather, _he_ had called _him_ , he could start the conversation.

Phineas was staring at him imperiously from his heavily gilded frame, his clothing was immaculate and his stance aristocratically slouched into a fine chair. Though he was bearded, as was the style for an older wizard of distinction in his era, it did nothing to take away from the sharp lines of his face. Lines that when matched with his dark features told any onlooker worth their salt what his lineage was before they learnt of names. That was the way of it in pureblood circles, your face was your calling card. It opened doors or had them closed on you.

Phineas cast his gaze over the pack thrown over Regulus’ back and turned to him, his eyes full of barely contained fury. “This is a dereliction of duty,” he seethed, and his painted fingers - consciously or unconsciously - moved to caresses the black faceted stone of his family ring.

Regulus eyed the real, substantial version on his own finger. “What is?” He asked casually. Too casually.

Phineas’ eyes retracted to slits. “No games. I know enough, now is not the time to develop a taste for the same amateur dramatics your feckless brother was so fond of.”

Regulus gritted his teeth. “I act in the best interest of this house.”

Phineas snorted. “You go on a fool’s errand! Your life is not your own to give away on some fanciful heroic notion,” he raged, sputtering when he saw the blankness of Regulus’ face. “You leave this house without an heir.”

“I leave this world without any if I do not take steps to correct the mistakes that have been made, it is a matter of honour, Sir.”

Phineas rose from his painted chair. “And what do you know of honour? You are a mere boy that should seek to be directed by your elders. Nothing is more important than this house, not to its sons and daughters.”

Regulus knew why Phineas’ reaction was so strong, his own firstborn, his namesake had been an outcast after he refused to follow the scriptures his father had set for the house. But Regulus would not be swayed. In a way he almost felt comforted by his ancestor’s ire, it was close to caring.

He sucked in a deep breath before he took one step forward, meeting the older wizard’s eyes. “I do not leave my ancient and noble house without options.”

Phineas sighed, and his puffed out chest deflated before he resumed his seat. “Sirius is not fit to lead,” he argued with a wave of his hand, but his bite had gone.

“If he is given the mantle he will not disappoint,” Regulus stated firmly. His brother could do it. He had been born to it after all.

“You have too much faith,” Phineas replied stretching to the side of his portrait to pour himself a rather large glass of wine. Regulus bit down his smirk.

“And you, Great Grandfather, have none. Take care of them when I am gone.”

Regulus waited for an incredibly reluctant nod before he walked away.

* * *

Regulus’ shoes squeaked against the polished floor of his father’s study, but he ignored it; instead, he dropped his bag down slowly as he turned to face the far wall.

From a distance the tapestry weave was so fine it almost looked like wallpaper, it was only up close that you could see the old threads, kept alive by layers of blood magic. The pictures did not move, not like the portraits that lined the rest of the house, but they looked real enough if their representations were a little… overly flattering.

Regulus could remember being made to sit on a small stool as a child, learning the family tree and reciting the names aloud while his mother sat in the corner, ready with the ruler for when there were too many mistakes.

He could remember Sirius teasing Andromeda about how _perfect_ they tapestry made her look. His brother had joked that she would never have looked so elegant if it were a full body portrait, the neck up shot covered her perpetually grazed knees and ripped skirts.

Regulus ran his fingers over the connection lines of his immediate family tree. Over the golden link that twinkled showing his parents marriage and the stealing bronze that fell from that line to himself and his brother. Somehow, even after all of this time, the patch where Sirius had been was still warm. Regulus had spent an enormous amount of time staring at that spot in the last few years. You could still see tiny bits of the face lurking beneath the mark; it was apt in a way, Sirius was like a stain that never went away, he was as linked to him now as he ever was.

As ever present and ever painful as the brand scorched into his arm.

Regulus took one last look before he turned his back on them.

* * *

Regulus apparated with Kreacher from the front hall of his childhood home, while his personal elf held his fingers in a near death grip. As soon as his feet landed on jagged rocks, the spray hit him, and the salt water nearly made him lose his balance as Kreacher dragged him further away from the edge of the cliff.

Regulus took a few deep breaths, dropping his pack to the ground before he carefully moved back to the precipice to look down below. He couldn’t see well; the force of the wind was monumental. As it whipped across his face in slashes that felt hard enough to draw blood, he wondered if there was some enchantment on the whole place designed to make it seem even less appealing.

His view of his clothing went from ridiculously romantic to romantically ridiculous in seconds.

Regulus stayed there for a few moments, adjusting his footing so he wouldn’t be blown clean off into the water, watching the rolling, thick streams of the ocean. The weather made the sea beneath them look almost black, even the tips of the waves were the colour of Spanish cobbles, there was no foam to speak of, which was odd given how fast the water was moving.

Kreacher remained at his side, ever silent, ever watchful, waiting for his next command. Possibly his last.

He’d had an inkling of what he would be facing. Regulus had meticulously painted a picture in his mind to help to prepare himself, and yet seeing it with his own eyes was something different.

He had imagined something more peaceful for his final resting place.

Regulus shut out the chiming thought before it could grow, before it would erode his mental fortifications and allow his will to be given over to fear. He could always get away from here after all, but he would be caught, eventually. There was nowhere to run. His only hope was to destroy this before he could be found out. His Lord’s fury would make the building tempest beneath their feet seem like gently lapping summer waves.

He moved away from the edge of the cliff and knelt to ensure his pack was firmly sealed before he pulled it onto his back. He looked to Kreacher who was still staring at the water, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“I am sorry to ask you to come down there again old friend,” he said calmly, resting his weight on one knee and pressing his hand onto one of the elf’s shoulders.

“It is an honour to serve, Master Regulus, Sir,” Kreacher choked out, and Regulus nodded once, stepping back to straighten himself out and reaching for his hand once more.

He couldn’t allow himself to think much more in case he talked himself out of it, or worse, they were discovered. Whispering a quick promise he took a couple of steps back before accelerating forward as fast as he could, diving into the waters below.

* * *

Regulus gasped as his body plunged into the murky depths. At first, the cold was so severe and so sharp it took his breath away. The sensation was like hundreds of stabbing needles all over his body. With the way that the pain lacerated his body he initially assumed that he had not made his original goal of clearing the rocks. When he realised he was in the middle of the water, his mind screamed at him to move, and Regulus ploughed on, gripping Kreacher by the back of his favoured pillowcase and pulling him onto his back as he began to propel forward.

Regulus did whatever he could to not think about the pain that was eating into his skin; he felt he had never swum so slowly in his life. It would all be worth it, all of it.

Regulus thought of the carefully placed locket that was safely tucked into the bottom of his pack. It had taken him an age to get something that looked close enough to what he needed. He had seen his Lord wearing it before, ‘a family heirloom’ he had said, it was undoubtedly much more than that.

Now he had the answers Regulus finally understood the strange feeling he had got from the item. He had written it off at the time as a sudden flash of envy, but the more he assessed his reaction after the fact, armed with new information, he realised how ridiculous that was.

When he had created a decent enough facsimile, Regulus resigned himself to the fact that he would never be able to make it feel the same way. He realised the Dark Lord would know instantly, as soon as he held the gold in the palm of his hand, and so he had allowed himself to include the note.

_To the Dark Lord_   
_I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.  
R.A.B._

It was his final fuck you, not just to the Lord he could not respect but to a world that had not understood him, a world that had never tried. Even by his own admission, the short letter was arrogant, petulant, and foolhardy, and yet when his quill had pressed the final dot into the parchment, it gave him the first real smile he had in months.

As they approached the shoreline, Kreacher summed up what little energy must have been remaining in his bones and jumped from his place on Regulus’ back to reach out his slim hand and help him climb to the shore. The drying spell he waved over them did nothing to eliminate the quaking of their bodies, but they pressed on.

It was too late to go back now.

* * *

Regulus knew for sure how it would all end when the first of the Inferi dragged its decaying frame onto the tiny island. He was aware that apparition was impossible and yet faced with increasingly desperate thoughts he tried it anyway. He just had enough time to secure the locket around Kreacher’s neck before the first withered hand secured around his ankle.

He had gripped the locket so tightly, felt victory so clearly that he had pressed the glimmering emerald stones into the palm of his hand, Regulus registered the hiss of a sting as he gripped Kreacher tightly, even as he could feel himself being dragged backwards.

“Kreacher,” he spoke clearly, endeavouring to keep any panic out of his voice.

“Master Regulus!” the elf screamed realising with a start that the locket had been placed on his person as he rushed forward to grip Regulus’ wrist. Kreacher babbled in a constant stream of sobs and pleas, using what was left of his magic to zap some of the invading forces off the rocks.

Regulus stopped fighting as the water reached his middle, as clawing fingers ripped into his flesh. “Kreacher,” he forced out, “I _command_ you to go.”

There was a pained scream, and a flash of blinding light before the water came up to his chin, and a deep, uncomfortable tug began in his navel.

Then, all was black.

* * *

Regulus blinked. He regarded vaulted ceilings, dark wooden beams, and red and gold banners. Even the afterlife was mocking him. A sudden burn in his chest made him throw himself onto his side, and in deep heaves, he brought up thick streams of murky water.

There was a gasp and a scrambling of feet, and despite the pain all over his body Regulus leapt to his feet instantly gripping his wand. He lunged forward instinctively and pressed the tip into the neck of the person in front of him. It took him a moment to realise, distracted as he was by large, cinnamon eyes blown wide, that there was a wand tip pressed against the flesh of his own throat, and three more pointing at him in the distance.

Witches, four of them.

Regulus took a step back, nearly slipping over as he felt sickly confusion settle over him, he lowered his wand, and they dropped theirs, at which point he was assaulted with a barrage of voices.

“H-Hello?”

“Are you alright?”

“You’re very wet.”

“Who are you?”

“Have you come far?”

The general confusion in the room calmed his senses; he didn’t seem to be in an Order stronghold. He looked back at the first girl. Her eyes were still locked on him. She was short with freckles over her nose and insanely curly hair.

“I’m Regulus, Regulus Black.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione Jean Granger sat upright; her back was ramrod straight, and her shoulders squared, as she perched on the edge of the worn Great Hall bench. Her warm, slightly absent gaze, was fixed dead ahead, at the raised dais where the teacher's table was placed. Like always. To any casual observer, her focus was solely on Headmistress McGonagall as the elderly witch stood behind the lectern, but her thoughts were a million miles away.

Hermione’s hands were in her lap, and her fingers were closed around one of the scratched up teaspoons from the table. She turned it over and over in the hope of absorbing her need to fidget. She couldn’t help that her mind wandered, all the speeches sounded the same now, there were only so many synonyms for _unity_ that a person could use before it all became white noise.

Hermione felt guilty about her lack of attention, she held her former head of house in high esteem. After all these years she had come to regard her with a large amount of affection. To see her favourite professor take on the role as head of the school had been hugely gratifying but even her unwavering respect couldn’t counteract the growing boredom she felt.

She had tried in the beginning, when the first term of her eighth year had begun. Hermione had watched the sorting ceremony at the Welcome Feast with rapt attention, gladly lending her own claps and calls of support to each new child that joined them on the benches. It had been necessary then, and not just to properly greet the new students. Hermione found that keeping her gaze trained forward avoided moments of painful eye contact, and not just on her side, for the others also. There were some in the hall that looked every bit as altered as she did, some of them had new scars, some were almost unrecognisable. But even with those that had flawless skin, you only had to look at their eyes to know they were no longer the same.

When Minerva McGonagall had stepped up to address them for the first time the whole room had quickly fallen silent, every head had turned to face her, the teachers as well as the students, all of them waiting for  _something_. Hermione had looked at the new headmistress’s face, and as usual, she didn’t look remotely phased by the magnitude of the task, but then again she had seen this witch on a battlefield, had fought alongside her. Hermione wondered what her professor would have considered a more difficult task.

_“To those of you that have entered these walls for the first time, and to the rest of you that are returning to Hogwarts to continue your education… Welcome home.”_

Hermione had felt her throat tighten at the opening address; it would have been all she could think about if Ginny hadn’t been holding her hand in a near crushing grip. The headmistress had kicked off their final school year with a speech about how it was high time for change, how they were to treat each other with tolerance and acceptance, how the building of their new world began at the school, with the education of those that would go on to shape it. Her words were soothing, rational and informative. A pattern that had continued throughout that term, with Professor McGonagall in charge there was a good deal less _deliberate_ nonsense.

It should have been comforting, and it was, Hermione felt safe. Safe and bored.  

Hermione’s eyes darted about the room, the students around her were paying no more attention than she was, she wasn’t surprised. When she had been here before, in what now felt like a previous life, she had quickly gathered from Ron and Harry’s blank looks following feasts that they would have been barely attending; it was just unusual that she noticed. Before, Hermione would have been hanging off every word, looking out for any hidden meaning, searching for what _wasn’t_ being said. There was little more than the surface level to be gained from information on when the next Quidditch match would be.

Resigned to inattention, Hermione tried to mentally list the additional reading she wanted to get done over the holidays, to save herself time before her planned trip to the library the next day. Her homework had long been completed, but she found herself uneasy whenever she had a lack of backup work to do. She could never be sure when a bout of insomnia would hit; it was best to be prepared with a couple of lofty tomes to help pass the time.  

Lack of homework notwithstanding, Hermione’s lessons were going surprisingly well, considering she had half expected to fall back when she resumed her education. Despite Ron and Harry’s good-natured teasing when she had accepted Professor McGonagall's offer, she was less keen than they imagined, school work didn't seem as vital as it had years before. Only, Hermione found that once she was back at the castle, she was doing better, with no distractions, no looming threats and no boys to drag along academically. Even though she was no longer so militant about studying every hour that was available.

Hermione glanced over the table at Ginny who was doing a far worse job than herself of disguising her restlessness. The redhead almost bounced in her seat as her hand rested protectively on a piece of parchment. Hermione smiled to herself; it wouldn’t have taken a genius to work out that Ginny was impatient to finish responding to Harry’s latest letter. The two had _finally_ gotten together at some point after the final battle and had been keeping amazingly regular correspondence ever since Ginny had come back to school.

In direct contrast, Luna, who was sitting next to the redhead, sat serenely, with her hands folded in her lap and her torso twisted towards the front of the hall, and though her gaze looked a good deal more absent-minded than her own, Hermione had no doubt she was attending to every word.

One of the first initiatives that Professor McGonagall had put in place was to remove the necessity to sit at house tables for every meal. The Welcome Feast became the last time they _had_ to sit in such a way. The next morning when Hermione had arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast the usual long lines of tables were broken up. In place of the unbroken chain were smaller areas that would comfortably sit ten to twelve students at a time. Hermione had sat with Luna and Ginny from the first day, more often than not with a few other members of their respective houses, or anyone they might have walked in with from their classes.

Hermione took tremendous comfort from both girls presence. In many ways they had seen just as much as she had, there was so much she didn’t have to explain. When the boys had both decided to join the Auror Academy, Hermione had felt unsure about her decision not to join them and to go back to school instead. The boys must have felt the same as they tried to talk her around, but the girls seemed to understand. They had banded around each other when they had arrived at the platform in King’s Cross and had talked unceasingly, the whole way to Scotland, about utter nonsense, anything to make it seem more normal.

Sensing the Headmistress was drawing her end of term address to a close, Hermione brought her fingers back up to the table and put down the spoon gingerly, lest she drew attention to herself with an echoing clatter. She often found herself wondering if this was what her school life would have been like, without the war. Calm, sedate and functional, maybe even a little tedious.

Once the gentle applause died down the food arrived in a noiseless puff, like always, and as expected Ginny sprang into action, pulling her quill from somewhere and furiously writing out a few lines. Hermione knew better than to attempt conversation; she must have been hoping to get her reply off before they went back to the dorm for the evening.

Luna was now much more animated than she had been before, her dreamy focus was directed across the table at Rolf Scamander who had been joining them at mealtimes for most of the last week. He had sat next to Hermione that evening, managing almost to cover his disappointment that both seats on either side of Luna had been taken.

Rolf had come to Hogwarts a month before, at the request of their teachers. It had been decided this year that the school would host a series of guest lecturers and Rolf had been the first to attend. The magizoologist had just got back from a year of travelling and was apparently planning to update and re-write his grandfather's book.

At Luna’s insistence, they had all gone along and sat in the front row. Hermione hadn’t complained nearly as much as the others; she had been engrossed from the first slide and found the subject more fascinating than she ever had before. Her enthusiasm was no doubt helped along by the passion of Rolf’s address, though their lecturer seemed to encounter something else he would like to study a lot more carefully when Hagrid introduced him to Luna. Hermione found she liked him all the more for the way he looked at her friend, even if it was occasionally a bit awkward.

“Hermione,” Ginny called, grabbing her attention and sliding a piece of parchment over to her, “I forgot to give this to you earlier, Harry put a letter for you in with mine.”

Hermione smiled as she tucked the note inside her robes, already looking forward to hearing Harry’s unflinching account of how difficult training could be, both himself and Ron were in their element, but it was clear that it was a good deal tougher than they had expected. Hermione missed the boys, but that feeling was mixed in with a sense of guilt that she didn't miss them more. She had expected to feel more vulnerable without them, to worry that she had been left behind, not needed anymore, especially after the last year where they had been together so often, and yet, somehow, the separation was a relief.

A tsking sound from the other side of her made Hermione roll her eyes. She didn't need to turn her head to know that Pansy would be eyeing the newly appeared food with disdain.

“Would it kill them to serve a passable vegetable?” the brunette sighed, huffing to sit further back on the bench and dramatically flapping out a rolled up napkin to place in her lap, making her glossy bob bounce as she moved.

“Must we speak of death _every_ time we eat?” Hermione groaned.

“If I saw asparagus _just once_ , I wouldn't feel so many violent urges,” Pansy countered, lifting a terracotta lid warily only to see more of a different kind of potato lurking within. “I would settle for green beans.”

Hermione ignored her bleating and filled her plate, wrestling with a moment's indecision before she settled on parsnips, plopping them down in a way that she had already been told was _inelegant_.

Pansy, however, did not care for being overlooked. She turned herself to face Hermione, narrowing her eyes. “It's alright for you, Granger, you don’t worry enough about your appearance to care about being ‘hippy’. For those of us that like to look _lithe,_ this _fare_ is a disaster.”

Hermione’s hands instinctively moved to brush against her hip bones assessingly before she swore under her breath at triumphant Pansy’s snort.

She took it all back; she _did_ miss the boys.

Dinner theatre over, Pansy loaded her plate without much further fuss, and Hermione stopped herself from wriggling in her seat. It was probably for the best that the boys weren’t here, her newfound friendship with Pansy Parkinson, _of all people_ , was something they already expressed concern for over letter. They seemed fixated on _how_ it could have ever happened, but Hermione had no answer to give them, in fact, she had little explanation for it herself.

-/-/-/-

_By the second week back at school a routine was established, though one somewhat different than any she’d had before. Hermione would eat an early breakfast ahead of going out for a walk on the castle grounds. Food had been more than scarce during her year on the run, and she was still adjusting to eating a decent meal a few times a day. Hermione tended to get cramps and feel uncomfortable after breakfast and Poppy Pomfrey had advised her to go for walks, which seemed to alleviate some of the discomfort, at least enough to help her maintain her focus in classes._

_Hermione was rounding the furthest greenhouses when she collided straight into a taller shape, almost falling back onto her bum._

_“Watch it, Granger,” she heard in a waspish tone, and Hermione felt herself sag. She had heard the clipped voice directed at her in anger a great deal over her school years, though not at all in the last few days._

_Pansy stood before her, dusting imaginary dirt off her school skirt and sneering. Hermione didn’t respond. Instead, she rearranged her bag around her shoulder and made to continue past._

__“_ What no quip?” Pansy taunted, “no telling me in your snotty little superior way ‘to watch where I’m going’?” _

_Hermione sighed, they had been doing this for so long, and back then it had seemed meaningful, that was before other battle lines had been drawn, ones that made the schoolyard squabbles they used to get into seem ridiculous. There used to be gangs of them on either side of this little face off, and now there was only the two of them._

_“No Pansy, not today,” she replied in a tired voice before she walked off. Not noticing how the other girl didn't move until she had disappeared behind the next bend._

-/-/-/-

Hermione hadn’t said anything to the other girls about her interaction with Pansy, and after a few hours she had mostly forgotten all about it, but she did become slightly more aware of the scowling girl. There hadn’t been that many that had come back from Hermione’s year and of the Slytherin group, Pansy’s friends in particular, almost none. Hermione had realised that if she had been finding it difficult it must have been nearly impossible for the former Inquisitorial Squad member, not helped, she imagined, by Pansy’s blurted words ahead of the final battle.

Hermione had been livid at the time, ready to rush over there and tell Parkinson exactly what she thought of her, it had been Luna that had changed her perspective on it, quietly asking one night what she would have done, how far she would have gone to save her friends. Hermione had looked down at her hands, _a lot further than Pansy had as it had turned out_.

In truth Hermione hadn’t thought too much more about it, other than she couldn't be bothered to maintain a hostility that they should have outgrown, she assumed that she wouldn’t see or hear much of Pansy again that term, but she had been wrong.

A week after they had collided out on the grounds Hermione had been setting up her parchment in Charms when Pansy stood behind the stool next to her.

“Is this seat taken?” Pansy asked though Hermione had never heard a request phrased less like a question. The brunette glared at her when Hermione had looked up, slightly startled, her defiant piercing gaze almost daring Hermione to say no.

She didn’t.

First, it had only been that one class and then it was most classes. There was never any discussion of _why_ it just was, and about halfway through the term Pansy moved into the dorm room Hermione was sharing with the other girls.

Another of the modifications that had been put in place before their arrival at the castle was a corridor of smaller, non-house affiliated dorms for the two oldest years of students that were returning. The official line from the staff was that they were old enough now to have some degree of independence, and slightly leaner rules, that could not be implemented while they lived within their towers or dungeons. Hermione thought about what wasn’t being said; she knew in her own heart that moving back to her old dorm and facing the reality of the prematurely empty beds was too much.

When Hermione had expressed her preference to move into one of the fifth-floor dorms Ginny had readily agreed, keen to be seen as ‘grownup’ as possible. Hermione had suspected her friend's insistence was probably so she could add it to her stockpile of arguments to help in the battle that she was due to fight with her mother about moving into Grimmauld Place when the school year ended.

Luna had never been particularly fussed about her old tower, or its inhabitants, and had taken the third bed, unpacking a significant amount of the curiosities she had never felt comfortable to bring out in front of people that had bullied her for years, and draping almost every available surface in some form of glittery fabric.

That had left an empty bed, one that was claimed when Pansy had opened the door one day, saying nothing as she dumped all of her bags around her area.

Hermione pushed her half-eaten plate away and flicked her eyes over the desserts, nothing caught her fancy, but she was determined to have one that evening if only to show Pansy how much she wasn’t bothered by her comments. Not that she believed the girl had intended to be cruel, Hermione had spent enough time around Pansy now to know when she was just trying to get a rise out of her. Pansy snarked and she bitched about all of them, but she was there at breakfast each morning and had _nearly_ stopped calling them names, at least in other people’s hearing.

In many ways, the addition of Pansy took away from the sedate nature of the friendship group, but Hermione couldn’t have said it was for the worse. The Slytherin’s fiery temper was more than a match for Ginny’s. Pansy could be an out and out bitch, and the redhead had a short fuse that could rival her youngest brother some days. It hadn’t helped that at the beginning of relations Pansy had found one of Harry’s ‘ _love notes_ ’ soon after moving to the dorm. Hermione had privately thought that the dramatic reading Pansy did of it was rather funny, but that she had probably been pushing it when she graded it.

Their fallouts were never serious though, and strangely, they both seemed to enjoy the exchange of barbs as a weird form of tension release. Ginny had grown up in a house full of boys; arguing was an almost recreational pastime for her. It wasn’t as if Hermione was a delicate flower either, but she got too emotional about fights and screaming was frequently followed by tears. It was impossible to argue with Luna, she mainly ignored sarcasm, and if you somehow managed to get her angry, she was far more frightening than the rest of them combined.

* * *

When the feast was finally over the girls all filed out together, Luna trailing behind to say goodnight to Rolf. Hermione should have been more anxious about the packing that she still hadn’t done, but as they had arranged to travel to Grimmauld Place via floo instead of the train, she knew she could always do it in the morning.

“I wonder if I might borrow you for a moment, Miss Granger.”

Still contemplating sorting out the knickers that were strewn all over their dorm, Hermione hadn’t heard the headmistress approach, and she started for a moment before she nodded, waving the others off.

“I’ll see you later,” she said with a shrug at Pansy’s pointed look of inquiry. Her friend lingered for a moment until Luna caught her up and looped her arm through hers. Pansy rolled her eyes but resumed walking with the blonde in tow, no doubt muttering to herself the whole way.

Hermione followed the headmistress to the entrance of her office, using the divide the taller witch created in the milling students to cross the entrance hall in record time. They engaged in typical small talk about her classes and their respective plans over the Christmas holidays. Hermione intended to spend as much time as possible in her own flat, hopefully sorting out some of the furnishings she had yet to unbox, but that would be somewhat dependant on how much of a fuss Harry intended to cause about her not staying with him for the entire two weeks.

When they crossed the threshold of the headmistress’s office, Hermione was surprised to see the Minister of Magic sitting casually in one of the nicer wingback armchairs, a tea tray out on the table in front of him. He looked tired, with more than a day's growth of stubble lining his jaw. She dropped her bag to the floor, suddenly overcome by an all too familiar feeling of trepidation.

“Minister, is there something… is something wrong?” she asked, her voice wavering more than she would like. He looked at her kindly, but it was her professor that responded.

“Not at all Hermione,” she soothed, guiding her from where she had stopped dead in the doorway and into one of the chairs. Hermione arranged herself neatly, smiling to herself when Minister Shacklebolt remembered how she took her tea.

“Thank you, Minister,” she said politely as he handed her the cup, to her amazement he held it firm in his grasp.

“For the last time, call me Kingsley.”

Hermione giggled at his put out tone and tugged the cup into her fingers. “I’ll try,” she placated honestly. She would, but it was something she found incredibly difficult, she’d already had Madam Pomfrey insist on ‘Poppy’ this term.

When they were all sitting comfortably, Hermione felt the need to fidget that had been eating at her an hour earlier come back to prickle at her skin. “Not to be rude,” she began, knowing she was being just that, “but what is this about?”

The headmistress sat forward, putting her cup down on the table.  “Well, we thought now might be the most opportune time for us to begin looking at your next steps.”

Hermione heard a noise over on the far wall, and her eyes darted to regard the portraits warily, most of the framed characters appeared to be asleep, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was being watched.

“It's still just the end of the first term,” she deflected, she wasn’t sure why thoughts of the future panicked her so quickly, she just wanted to soak up the last remaining weeks of just being at school.

“Yes,” her professor agreed, “but a significant number of the most desired wizarding establishments have their application processes beginning soon.”

Hermione’s fingers trailed the rim of her saucer. “Forgive me, but I would imagine it’s not common for each student to have a consult with the head of the school and the Minister for Magic.”

Despite the sheer amount of times she had heard it, Kingsley’s booming laugh made her jump. He held his hands out in front of himself in a parody of contrition. “I will declare a selfish interest as to why _I_ am here,” he said with a broad smile, “I would like you to give serious consideration to options within the Ministry, Miss Granger.”

Hermione sighed. “Surely if you're _Kingsley_ , I’m _Hermione,_ Minister?”

He smirked at her, and it took years off his worn appearance, Hermione was filled with the slightly troublesome realisation that the look would have been fairly devastating when he was younger.

“Fine, _Hermione_ ,” he continued, adjusting the deep purple jacket of his pristine robes. “I am in the midst of a sizeable shakeup, and I believe your input would be most valuable. I need people I can trust, individuals with a different… moral outlook to the established order.”

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek; after all she had done in the last few years, she wasn’t sure she had the most well maintained moral compass though she decided to keep those thoughts to herself.  

“Did you have a role in mind?”

Kingsley sat back in his chair steepling his fingers. “I think the more pertinent question is, do you?”

“I don’t… I don’t know… there hasn’t really been the time-”

Hermione’s rambling was cut short as the headmistress placed a warm hand on her arm. “We understand, which is why we wanted to talk about it here and now, to open a dialogue. _I_ am here, and I would encourage you to seek out my counsel if you so wish it.”

Hermione nodded gratefully though a weight settled over her, the unsaid detail of _why_ she might need it lingered between them, her parent’s memories. Her professor had done all she could to help Hermione in her quest to restore them, but it had proved fruitless. They weren't’ coming back; they thought she was in need the counsel as she had no one else to give it.

Hermine considered that she might have sought out Minerva's guidance, in any case, her parents were not magical after all, though they were compassionate, and they did understand _her_ , in ways that no one else in the magical world would ever do. Sure, they wouldn't have comprehended _all_ of the references she made, but they would have tried.

“Thank you, for your kindness,” Hermione said eventually, though it made a tidal wave of self-pity crash over her to express such sentiment. “I will think about it.”

* * *

By the time Hermione had been excused she had worked herself into a bit of a bad mood, she missed her parents, and on top of that heartache, she was now beginning to panic that she might miss out on her perfect future because she hadn’t had the forethought to plan what she wanted. Worst of all it was all her fault, her actions or lack of them, had put her in this mess.

Hermione trudged through the door, intent on climbing into bed and not dealing with any talk of what was bothering her until the morning, by then she hoped that her initial emotional response would have cleared and she would feel more able to weigh and measure the road ahead dispassionately. Unfortunately, she had never been very good at masking her emotions, and all of the girls present sat up from their beds as she walked through them.

“What's wrong?” Pansy asked, throwing a thick, expensive looking magazine to the end of her covers. “Did they tell you that you can't take all of the exams on offer or something?”

Hermione let herself flop face down on the bed and remained perfectly still until a dip beside her let her know at least one of them hadn’t picked up on her slowly emitting ‘keep your distance vibes’. When she could feel fingers running through her hair she knew it was Luna; it was something Luna did whenever Hermione was obviously sad. The blonde had something different for all of them, with Pansy she organised her lipsticks, though not by colour, by threat level, with Ginny she ran through Quidditch drills, with Hermione she tried to tame her hair back in any number of different elaborate, braid based, hairstyles.

“No, nothing like that,” Hermione finally replied when it was clear she wouldn’t get any peace until she responded. “They wanted to talk about future career options. Kingsley was there, it seems he would be keen for me to join the Ministry.”

“Well, that's enough to depress anyone,” Pansy retorted dropping onto the end of Hermione's narrow bed before going back to leafing through her magazine.

Hermione rolled herself over, careful of Luna’s fingers, and pressed her foot into the back of the glossy pages until Pansy looked back at her. “I didn’t think it will be that bad, would it?” she asked.

Pansy looked thoughtful, but it was Ginny who answered, taking a run leap to drop down on the covers, nearly knocking Hermione Luna off the bed in the process. “What are your other options?”

Hermione struggled to think, “Ah… Ministry worker… or Healer,” she replied, “that's it I think.”

Pansy looked at her incredulously. “You only have two options? _You_. Seriously?”

Hermione felt a prickle of the fear she had felt earlier in her stomach, but she mainly masked it in irritation. “Why would that be a problem?”

“Not a problem Granger, I just assumed you would be considering _anything_ and _everything_ , I thought you would be one of those people that has three careers. You know,” Pansy said before effecting an incredibly scary mimic of Hermione’s stressed voice. “ _I actually work for the government, but in my spare time I’m working on a cure for Dragon Pox and writing my memoirs_.”

Hermione threw a pillow at her. “I’m not that bad!” She protested with a laugh.

“I’ve only got one option if it makes you feel better,” Ginny interjected, and Hermione smiled at her friend’s infectious grin. Ginny’s tryout at the Holyhead Harpies had been the week before and to use Ron’s vernacular; she had _smashed it_.

“One, well, two for me,” Luna said, not looking up from her fingers that were working through Hermione's hair. “I’m going to start full time on the paper with Daddy, though I might delay for a little while to go travelling with Rolf.”

Hermione stilled. “You kept that quiet,” she murmured. She tried her best to keep the worry out of her voice, but she knew she was transparent, especially when Luna gave her a knowing look before shrugging her shoulders.

“He only spoke to me about it last week.”

“Right,” Pansy said with a slap to her thighs, untangling herself from the other bodies on the bed and getting to her feet. “If we are going to talk about serious stuff we need supplies, come on Lovegood I need you to charm the elves.”

“Saying you can’t do it yourself, Parkinson?” Ginny sniped, jumping into the larger spot that was now available.

“Ginevra,” Pansy responded making Ginny scowl at her. “I can charm those creatures into giving me whatever I want, _except_ elf-made wine. They give Luna anything, hence why she needs to come.”

After a series of barbs back and forth that eventually descended into hand gestures Luna gave in and went with Pansy. Hermione had just changed into pyjamas when the two girls made it back, almost entirely loaded down with an impossible amount of junk food.

Hermione pulled a bag of crisps from the pile and brandished them at Pansy. “These don’t look like asparagus.”

“No,” Pansy agreed, ripping them out of her fingers, “but at least they're not covered in gravy.”

* * *

An hour later the girls were sprawled out on their dorm room floor, in various positions that Pansy would usually have turned her nose up at. The cushions and duvets from their beds were strewn all over, covered in the remains of the snacks that were arranged in little pockets, close enough to each of them that they didn’t have to move far to reach.

“You're really going to go away with Rolf?” Ginny asked as she laid on her back, her legs kicked up and propped against the end of her bed.

Luna paused in her current occupation of lazily charming a stream of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans to dance around her. “Maybe, Daddy doesn't _need_ me at the paper yet, and Rolf’s next adventure sounds like fun.”

“But as what though?” Ginny pressed, when Luna looked back at her blankly she expanded, “friends, a couple, what?”

“Does it matter?” Luna asked though something in her eyes told Hermione that she might have had more of an idea than she was letting on.

“I suppose not,” Ginny replied absently before a wicked smirk crossed her lips. “He’s quite fit though.”

Luna resumed her enchanting of the confectionary, smiling into her lap. “I think he’s lovely.”

Pansy rolled her eyes so aggressively she moved her head from where it was resting against Hermione’s knee. “Not sure _lovely_ is the word I would use.”

“Oh?” Luna piped in as she tried to bite one of the beans that whizzed past her lips.

“No, he’s, well, a bit rough looking, like a pirate from one of those erotic romance novels.”

Hermione choked on her wine, but the others just beamed wider.

“Do you know, I think he might have a sword,” Luna supplied, and then they all fell into giggles.

“I don’t believe we want to call into question his swordplay,” Ginny said with a wink that made Hermione certain the girl would have no problem contributing to locker room banter, “but he’s certainly got _lovely_ hands. They’re not as nice as Harry’s though, his are all calloused and scarred up from flying,” she said with a suddenly dreamy expression, “they feel fantastic when they-”

Though what exactly they were fantastic at was never revealed as Hermione began to dry heave, an action that was only half faked.

“Oh, grow up Hermione,” Ginny chided.

“She’s not exactly wrong Weasley,” Pansy replied, sitting back up. “The thought of you two going at it is somewhat repellent.”

“Bitch.”

Pansy stuck her tongue out before rooting through the piles to see if there was anything worth eating left. “All this talk of boys makes me think of marriage, and I don't much fancy that yet.”

“Whatever Pans, you know you can’t wait to be a _professional_ wife,” Ginny taunted, and Hermione sighed, immediately moving nearer to Luna. This _debate_ , if it could be labelled as such, had happened a few times before and breaking it up didn’t work, they needed to be left to run it out.

“Yes, because chasing various balls around a pitch would make me more of a _professional,_ ” Pansy sneered, brushing her displaced hair out of her eyes.

“It’s not exactly a _career_ is it, being a housewife.”

“Not the way your mother does it.”

Hermione looked over to Luna and pulled on the sleeve of her pyjamas, “You need to do something Lu, they’ve both had a fair bit of wine, and it might not be pretty.”

Luna looked thoughtful. “You could break it up you know.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not this argument; they would try to drag me into it; they listen to you.”

Both girls looked back over to Ginny and Pansy who were now on their feet. They were fairly evenly matched in height, which was easy to tell as they were standing so close together.

“Really, you want to go there?” Ginny screeched, and Luna stood.

“Shall we play a game?” she asked, and at the sound of her cool melodic tones, the room went silent.

 _Unbelievable_ , Hermione thought to herself, Luna should have been considering some role in international relations.

* * *

“I've always wanted to do the soul mate spell,” Ginny said a good while later, after Luna’s insistence that they play Muggle board games had redirected their anger at the inanimate bits of chipboard that they struggled to make any sense of.

“That's for kids,” Pansy snapped, but there was no real heat there anymore, and considering they were now leaning against each other there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger of another outburst.

“Some of us didn't get the _luxury_ of behaving like children,” Ginny muttered, almost entirely under her breath and Pansy looked towards the ceiling as if willing herself to have patience.

“The soul mate spell?” Hermione asked.

Pansy laughed. “Sorry my backwards Muggle friend,” she said before she ruffled Hermione’s hair patronisingly.

“It’s a simple spell, typically done at sleepovers and those kinds of things, I saw it in an old Teen Witch when I was in St Mungo’s as a kid,” Ginny explained. “You say the spell, and it is supposed to bring up the name of your soul mate.”

“How?” Hermione pressed.

Ginny and Pansy both shrugged. “Who knows, as far as I could tell it was totally random and it’s only a first name,” Pansy supplied.

“Who did it say for you?” Ginny demanded with a grin, and Pansy’s cheeks went a little pink.

“Marcus,” she mumbled, albeit _very_ reluctantly.

“MARCUS!,” Ginny screeched, “as in Marcus Flint?”

“It’s a very common name.”

“Not that common.”

“Maybe not in the circles you belong to Weasley.”

“Luna?” Hermione asked, “What do you think?” Hermione was keen to pull the attention away from Pansy who she noted looked genuinely uncomfortable.

Luna waved a hand absentmindedly. “It's fine. It’s like any magic, you are safe to do it as long as you take into account the circumstances. In this case, as long as you are truly willing to face whoever comes up.”

“It doesn’t actually work Lovegood,” Pansy grumbled.

Hermione, buoyed by Luna’s reassurance, and more intrigued than she would have admitted aloud, followed the blonde’s precise directions and cleared the swaths of blankets and food packets from the floor, leaving just the cushions. Luna convinced them to light some candles though they all moaned about it, Hermione could sense that for all they may have dismissed it as folly, Ginny and Pansy were anxious about too. She had a weird nervous energy about herself that made her want to get on with it before she could change her mind.

Hermione had done many reckless things in her short life but very few that were so vain or so totally in her own self-interest. That said, Ginny had been right, though the direction of her complaint had been misguided, none of them had had much of a chance to be children. _What was the harm?_

Luna sat on the floor, her legs crossed with the palms of her hands resting on the bends of her knees, facing up. “Sit like this,” she instructed, “in a circle.”

“I don’t remember doing it like this at Millie’s 14th,” Pansy said, but she dutifully folded herself down and copied Luna’s stance.

“It's how my mum taught me,” Luna replied which effectively silenced any further objections.

“Who are we doing?” Hermione asked, and all of the girls around the circle exchanged glances with one another. “Ginny?” she tried, “It was your suggestion.”

Ginny paled a fraction, or maybe a lot for it to have been noticeable in the little amount of candlelight that the room now had.

“Problem Weasley?”

Ginny twisted her hands together and looked dead at Hermione. “What if it's not Harry?”

Hermione looked at her compassionately, if there were such a thing as soulmates, which she highly doubted, Harry and Ginny would be it. Taking pity on her friend she turned to the blonde next to her. “Luna?”

“I think I know mine,” she responded, not looking up from where she was tracking a pattern onto the top of her knee.

“Of course you do,” Hermione sighed looking to her other side at Pansy, but it seemed the other girl had foreseen her question.

“You first,” Pansy said, her tone almost daring.

In spite of herself, Hermione felt anxious. “This doesn't seem like something we should mess around with.”

“Scared Granger?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “If anyone ever doubted you and Draco grew up together,” she responded dryly.

“So, are we going this or what?” Ginny said, almost bouncing in anticipation.

Hermione looked around the circle once more to find three sets of eyes all looking back at her expectantly. Not knowing what else to do she sagged, “Fine.”

“We need something of yours, Hermione.”

Hermione looked around herself not seeing anything of particular significance until she remembered the headband on her wrist. “Will this do?”

Luna looked at it for a few moments before appearing to deem it _worthy_ then the girls got back in position, this time linking hands face up, one on top of the other until the circle was connected. Hermione wasn’t sure what to expect, but a moment later Luna began chanting, the words weren’t something she recognised but soon after Pansy, and then Ginny joined in, and she started following too. It wasn’t a language that Hermione readily understood, but the sounds were simple and the cadence melodic so it wasn’t difficult. Under Luna’s instruction she kept her eyes resolutely closed until some time later, she thought she could feel a breeze on her face. It weirdly put Hermione in mind of the sea.

She opened one eyelid, just a crack, warily not looking into the centre of the circle in case she caught sight of a glittering name she didn’t want to acknowledge. Her eyes flew open when she registered that outside of the ring they had created books and other random objects from the dorm were rushing past them. It was like being in the middle of a twister. When her gasp didn’t get any attention from the others, Hermione squeezed Pansy’s hand tightly, causing the girl's eyes to open instantly.

“What do you want Gran… What the fuck?” Pansy’s eyes flew wide, and her shout brought the others out of their states

“Shit.”

“Luna?”

“This… this didn't happen before.”

The candles that Luna had insisted they light began flickering, first only a few and then it was like all of them were constantly flashing. Hermione wanted it all to stop; she made to pull her fingers away from the others, to get to her feet, but when she tried her hands were stuck fast.

“What do...”

Before she could finish her desperate sentence, there was an almost deafening bang followed by what sounded like the roar of waves, and suddenly, all at once, all of the candles blew out.

Then, all was black.

* * *

Hermione didn’t know what had happened but moments after the spell seemed to reach its apex her hands were suddenly free. She fell back on the carpet and got the impression the others may have done the same; they had all been pulling quite hard on each other. Ignoring the winded feeling in her chest, she immediately scrambled to her feet, glad that they had cleared up the mess on the floor earlier.

The lights came back on.

Hermione didn’t know what she was expecting to see, maybe debris, a few scattered parchment pages and some broken objects, perhaps, but she knew she didn’t expect to see a person on the ground. A boy on the ground. A boy all in black on the ground. A sopping wet boy all in black in the ground.

On the ground of her school dormitory.

“Hermione…” Pansy began, her face more shocked that Hermione had ever seen it, but whatever she was going to say was halted when the stranger opened his eyes. He blinked heavily for a moment before his gaze fixed on a point above her head. He groaned lowly before throwing a hand over his face, his teeth gritted as if he was in pain.

Hermione followed his line of sight. He had been looking at the extensive Gryffindor related merchandise that was suspended over Ginny’s bed. When the boys had learned of Pansy moving into their dorm their reaction had been to send almost every conceivable red and gold banner in existence, and a few that Hermione suspected they had created. Hermione had point blank refused to have any of it in her section; Ginny had too until she and Pansy had their first fight, then she had practically covered a quarter of their ceiling with the stuff.

Hermione’s heart was beating out of her chest; they were in trouble, _real trouble_ , old school trouble. None of them had said anything further to Pansy’s one word, she wasn’t sure if it was the fear or part of the spell, but her mouth felt almost glued shut.

Her eyes dove back to the stranger when he convulsed suddenly, he threw himself onto his side and brought up thick streams of water as he heaved. Hermione’s first instinct was to drop down to the floor and help him; maybe she would have let herself a few years before, but not now.

Her hesitation proved to be fortuitous when what felt like minutes later the boy seemed to get command of himself, stretching before his arm jerked in a movement Hermione was sure they would all recognise.

He moved, quickly, but nowhere near fast enough.

It was far from the first time Hermione had felt a wand tip pressed against her throat; it was, however, a relatively new feeling to feel robust enough to fight back. She had her own weapon trained on him not even a second later, even if it was a bit of a stretch to reach, and then, they both just stopped. She was close enough to hear his breathing which was incredibly laboured, close enough to register his strangely familiar slate grey eyes and high cheekbones. She could feel the dampness of his jacket and the warmth coming off his chest.

Hermione felt more than heard the other girls close in around her, and a moment later her silent stare-off with the stranger was broken. He took a step back, and although he nearly tripped over a cushion he never seemed to lose his composure, he even managed to lower his wand without it looking like an act of surrender.

When he eventually pocketed his weapon it was as if the tension in the room burst, like a pricked balloon, his eyes were still trained on her face and just as strong as the compulsion to hold her tongue had been earlier, now it was forcing her to speak.

“H-Hello?” She stuttered out and then shook her head.

“Are you alright?” Ginny asked, twirling her wand in her fingers, seemingly caught between wanting to brandish it and put it out of sight.

“You're very wet,” Luna observed, her head tilted to the side.

“Who are you?” Pansy demanded, stepping forward in a way that made Hermione cringe, she wasn’t sure they should be getting that close to the stranger, there was something about him, something dangerous.

“Have you come far?” Luna asked conversationally as if nothing about this was in any way peculiar.

Hermione thought she was going to be sick and then his eyes found hers again and then she was _sure_ she was going to throw up. She noticed the wet black hair that was pressed against his forehead, his skin that looked almost impossibly pale against the shocking darkness of his robes, his wet robes, _should she have offered a drying charm?_

Then he spoke, in a voice that was so confident it was almost ridiculous, given their situation. “I’m Regulus, Regulus Black.”

Hermione felt all of the air leave her lungs in a painful rush as she sputtered out, “Your… what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Phew, I think that was the most dialogue I have ever included in one chapter. Well, there we are… some explanations all round in the next update.


	3. Chapter 3

As the witch in front of him spluttered out an almost incoherent reply, Regulus felt the atmosphere in the small room change, the air felt closer, his proclamation had shifted something, but he didn’t know what. His lack of understanding unnerved him; Regulus prided himself on always being _aware_ of everything; it was the only way to ensure survival. Mixed in with all of his other swirling emotions he registered that he was slightly irritated by their lack of response to his introduction. To not reciprocate with their own names was the height of rudeness but more than that, they should have known who he was, if not on sight at least by name, he might not have recognised them, but the reverse was shocking.

Regulus jutted out his chin and attempted to pull his haughty aristocratic mask into place. It was harder than usual to perfect a look disinterest, but then, he had never before tried it dripping wet, seconds after he had resigned himself to his certain death.

Regulus hadn’t taken his eyes off the wild looking girl directly in front of him, but he had managed to catalogue enough of his surroundings to know that he was in a Hogwarts school dormitory, a girl’s one apparently. A smug voice in his head reminded him that it was hardly the first time, and despite the tension permeating the little group Regulus almost laughed. He estimated that the girls in the silent standoff with him were about his age, and with that assessment, his earlier irritation came back to nag at him. They  _should_ have known who he was; they should have looked at him with recognition. Yet, when he quickly thought back to their reactions it wasn’t entirely blank confusion on their faces, it was more like… disbelief.

Regulus considered his options; he could try to overpower the girls, two of them were positively tiny, but he had no reference for how quick they were with their wands. Despite his skill, there were four of them; a direct attack would be foolhardy. There was also the small matter of having no idea where he would go even if he did get out of the room. Hogwarts was a vast space to navigate, and he would no doubt be seen by someone else, someone potentially trickier than the girls in front of him.

“I think we better get the headmistress,” the redhead suddenly proclaimed, decisively stepping forward and eyeing him warily.

_Headmistress?_

Regulus controlled his expression as well as he could, but he knew he must have displayed some of the shock he felt. He had been aware that something was wrong from the moment he landed in the unfamiliar room, but this was his first real indicator of what he might be facing. His mind skimmed over possibilities, each more fanciful than the last. His eyes roved over the girls trying to ascertain which of them, if any, was in charge. That would be the one to direct his questions to. The girl with the curly hair barely moved, in fact, if she hadn’t blinked every few seconds Regulus might have assumed that she had been stunned. Though, despite her statuesque pose, he didn’t miss how the others kept gazing at her as if their reactions hinged on hers.

As his eyes took in their wary expressions, Regulus decided that whatever his purpose for being there was the witches hadn’t had a hand in it, at least not deliberately. They seemed as surprised to see him as he was to be there, and if he had truly been ‘summoned’, in whatever unknown way, to this location one of them would have begun making their demands by now.

Regulus bit the inside of his cheek, even if he got out of the castle he could hardly go home, that road was closed off to him now, and he couldn’t make any other plan until he knew more. It was an unsatisfactory resolution, but he decided his only option was to sit back and get as much information as possible from those around him until a future step presented itself.

The girls began conferring, or rather, three of them did, the girl with the curly hair said nothing after she was dragged back towards the others. At first, Regulus had assumed that she kept her eyes trained on him in case he made to flee, but although it was unwavering, her gaze was too blank to be considered guarding.

Their voices overlapped each other as they became more animated, it was evident from the outset that there was indecision between them. The fact that they all spoke at once prevented Regulus from making out most of what was said, but he heard the words’ Death Eater’ as clear as day and automatically raised his wand, pushing himself against a wall to cover his back.

The girls’ conversation halted as soon as he moved, and their wands were pulled up also, though he detected less hardness about their faces this time around. Regulus noticed the small blonde stood off to the side for the first time, her wand was raised, but it looked as if it were almost an afterthought, her arm was far from fully extended, and her face looked almost pitying. He knew they were not going to shoot at him and it made him feel even more resentful, both that they didn’t fully appreciate the threat he was and that they were so ill-equipped to look after themselves. It reminded him of why he had hated the Order so much; he had laughed at Sirius when he had suggested that he throw himself on Dumbledore’s mercy, there wasn’t a lick of self-preservation in any of them.

Regulus gestured to his still dripping form. “With your permission?” he said, his voice dripping with contempt as he waved a drying spell over himself. He just controlled the sigh as his clothes dried out and he pocketed his wand smoothly, raising an eyebrow at the witches in front of him in challenge.

A dark-haired witch with mean eyes stepped forward, looking at him with as much scorn as he had managed to force into his voice earlier. “Let’s go,” she said to the others, stalking off before waiting for a reply.

* * *

The walk through the Hogwarts corridors was brisk. Regulus had wondered what would happen if they encountered anyone else on their way to the heads office, but they were moving far too quickly for that to be an issue. The girls had roughly jostled him out of the dormitory, though they had made no effort to restrain him, it hadn’t even been suggested. Regulus had thought them inexperienced and foolhardy until they easily stepped into an apparently practised formation around him, the girls at the back holding their wands loosely, ever ready, in their fingers. Regulus considered that perhaps they weren’t as _unprepared_ as they seemed.

As they turned another corner his eyes fell on an enormous sweeping gouge along the rough brick wall; there was a darkness to the air around it as if the very atmosphere was still tinged with the anger of the magic that had been cast.

“What?” he softly exclaimed, the word leaving his lips wholly unconsciously.

The curly-haired witch, stationed to his right, followed his gaze, her head turned as she took in the full length of the hollow. She looked pained. Regulus wondered again at the witches being at the school; they looked a little too old, their manner was not quite fitting, the girl, _woman_ , to his right in particular. Regulus was sure he had never seen eyes like her’s before, they seemed to reflect a million emotions at once, all of them unspoken, and yet nothing at the same time. He was suddenly aware of a gentle compulsion from within himself to make her speak. She had only uttered a scattering of words since he had landed there and in all that had happened, he found he couldn’t isolate her tone amongst those he remembered.

Her cheeks pinked as she noticed him looking and her pert nose turned towards the ground as she muttered something under her breath. Regulus looked away, _for now_ , his mind chided, and instead he continued to catalogue the damage to the castle as he went. _What had happened since he was in that cave?_

As his head turned again, eyeing a portrait he was sure hadn’t been there before, a small voice pulled his attention back to the witch to his right. “You’re bleeding.”

Regulus looked down again, this time noticing a lingering of something in her face, something he had been scrambling to put a name to since he had pressed his wand against her soft neck, it was fear. Though whether of him or the situation he didn’t know her well enough to determine. It took him a few moments to register what she had said and when he did his hand reflectively shot up to his neck, and his mind pulled him back to gushing water and clawing fingers.

Heedless of his lack of reply she eyed him carefully. “We should get Poppy,” she said softly.

Regulus honed in on the familiar name, feeling comforted by something in all of the madness making sense, as well as the girl’s apparent concern. The relief was to be short-lived. He knew what he was now, Regulus might have left the school not so long ago, but he was under no illusions that they had all known the path he was destined for after graduation.

Regulus’ eyes hardened, and his mouth pulled into a sneer. “I do not believe _Madam Pomfrey_ would be overly happy to help one such as me.” The witch at his side looked at him with clear recognition, and his footsteps paused. “So you know what I am?” His voice was urgent, and though he had asked a question, he had done so with a note of command. If he was being taken to the head of the school, he needed to know what he was up against, how much they knew.

The witch eyed him carefully before sighing and gesturing for him to keep walking, as soon as he did so she fell back into step with him, though her eyes did not leave the floor. “Yes, I knew what you were.”

Regulus stiffened as his eyes swept over the other witches that were positioned around him.

“I wouldn’t worry about them overhearing,” her voice chimed in softly. “We all know, about _everything_.”

* * *

For all that his surroundings had hinted at something being seriously wrong, Regulus only knew just how bad it truly was when he was stood in what had been the Headmaster’s office, in front of McGonagall. The old woman, _older than he remembered_ , eyed him for a long time without uttering a single word. Regulus kept his mouth closed, of all the people to have been brought in front of, this eventuality was one of the worst. McGonagall had been one of his most hated professors, mainly due to her favouritism of the so-called Marauders, despite their appalling behaviour. He supposed the professor would have thought of those boys as ‘charming’ in some misguided way. Regulus had known charming, _real charm,_  a charm used as the scariest weapon of them all; he found it aberrant.

Just when it seemed as if he would spend the rest of eternity in rooms of painful silence the redhead once again awkwardly stepped forward.

“Ah, Professor, this is… _Regulus Black_ ,” she offered falteringly. Regulus could have told her how unnecessary such an introduction was, if he had been inclined to speak, the woman behind the grand desk was only too aware of his identity.

Drawing himself up he squared his shoulders and thinned his lips. He had faced worse ‘interviews’ than this, even when he had been in possession of all of the facts.

“What year is it?” he asked crisply, studying the old witch’s face, and her expression darkened.

 _I’m not an idiot_ ; he wanted to shout at her. It was the only solution that made sense; he had considered alternative universes and even that he was already dead, both were too fanciful. Regulus had always found that the magical world had a cruel sense of humour, flinging him into the future and the school was the latest in a long line of unwelcome pranks that his life had spat at him.

The apparent Headmistresses’ eyes narrowed, though whatever she was going to say was cut off by a rough throat clearing by the wall.

“Minerva.”

From the stone turret behind the desk, the haughty face of Phineas Nigellus Black came into view. Regulus wondered how long he had been there, the canvas on which he appeared had been pitch black when he had entered. Mindlessly he considered whether it was his Great Grandfather’s usual frame, it being lower on the wall than he would have expected. Regulus had been given to understand during some of their long conversations that the Heads of the School didn’t consult Phineas’ opinion anywhere near as much as they apparently should have done. Regulus felt something akin to relief, though his ancestor did not look at him.

“I would like a word with the boy,” Phineas continued, placing his wine glass down and staring at the professor imperviously.

“This is highly irregular,” McGonagall responded, uncharacteristically flustered.

Phineas pushed back into his high backed chair and raised an eyebrow. His face was mostly impassive, but his eyes were flinty with indignation, he had never had cared for being challenged. “Yes I suppose it is,” he considered, though he made no effort to hide that he didn’t mean it. “However, I don’t imagine this is a situation we have a regular course of action for, is it?”

The Headmistress sagged, apparently more preoccupied with the girls in front of her that were all making an excellent job of carefully examining the floorboards. “Fine,” she acceded without grace, waving for them to continue but Phineas crossed his arms over his chest.

“Alone,” he pressed.

Regulus had expected the professor to argue, but she didn’t seem inclined to, with a wave of her wand the shuffling girls were placed in a row on a sofa, and another wave had the furniture dragged closer to her desk.

“As you wish,” she replied, pointing Regulus to the wall, “It’s not as if we have nothing further to discuss.”

He saw the curly-haired witch gulp as he responded to the gesturing from his Great Grandfather and stepped towards his frame. As his feet landed in front of the wall, all of the noise around him seemed to be sucked from the air. Regulus looked at the portrait questioningly.

“Silencer,” Phineas explained, “One of my limited powers. It puts a field of interference around us. I don’t trust _her_ not to listen in.”

Regulus could understand the benefit of that, but at the same time, he was irritated, as crucial as this private conference was he had been hoping to hear some of what was being said behind him. Phineas leant forward on his chair, eyeing him assessingly.

“Do you already have that mark on your arm?” he demanded, steepling his fingers.

Regulus didn’t see the point in holding anything back; this was the future, it had to be, even the unknown witches had known what he was. “Yes, Sir.”

“Well, no matter I suppose,” Phineas looked thoughtful for a moment. “What time was it, when you left?”

Regulus instinctively reached to run his fingers against one of the cuts that were obscured by his formerly crisp white collar. “Just after our conversation, when I left Grimmauld Place, for good.”

Phineas nodded. “That’s something at least; any earlier could have caused issues here.”

“Sir?” Regulus pressed, and Phineas looked up, leaning slightly out of the frame to top up his ever-present glass on the table at his side.

“You need to know that the war is over here, though only just.”

Regulus’ mind flew into a panic. It wasn’t over, it would never be over, not until… They had no idea. “They need to find the-” he began, but Phineas interrupted him.

“-They found them all,” he said gravely, and despite the limited space, Regulus stepped forward.

“-All?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“A conversation for another time,” Phineas said firmly, and Regulus stopped, he was right, the important thing was that they were gone, he would find out how later, for now, he needed to know what would happen next, how much trouble he was in.

The portrait continued. “There are things you need to be made aware of, a lot of things. The year is 1999.”

Regulus felt all of the blood leave his face. _Twenty years_. “But you said the war-”

“The _second_ war,” Phineas clarified, and Regulus felt the weight behind what that implied, how much he had missed, how much he would need to understand.

His Great Grandfather took a healthy swig from his glass and eyed Regulus for a long moment before he began to speak again. “The House of Black fell, your death… it was followed by your mother’s, and eventually your father’s.”

Regulus barely blinked over the news of his demise; he had expected very little else. It took a few moments of silence for him to _understand_ and when he did, he felt anger course through him. _How could his house have fallen?_ He had told them what to do, after all he had done, for them, for everyone, how could they not have listened?

“Sirius,” he began through gritted teeth, “I _told you_ , he could have been brought back into fold-”

“Regulus,” Phineas interrupted aggressively, “Sirius is dead.”

Not even the cold certainty of his own death had prepared him for such a statement. Regulus was reeling. Sirius wasn’t supposed to die. They had _all_ been in danger, they had _all_ been moving along the same path leading to absolute oblivion, but things like that weren’t supposed to happen to his older brother. He had thought Sirius too big, too bright, _too alive_ for death. Regulus scoffed at himself, how was it that he could still believe in such romantic notions after all he had seen?

Regulus only half listened to the rest of what was said; there was a rushing sound in his mind that was so loud he thought for a moment that the spell that had brought him there had broken and that he was about to be sent back to the cave. He twisted the dark ring on his finger, his heir’s ring, feeling its weight more than ever as he absorbed what he could.

After a time Phineas told him he needed to get back and Regulus agreed, though he pressed that he would need a longer discussion later. Phineas raised his eyebrows at the command in his tone, but he didn’t bite back as he once would have done. Regulus understood, whatever madness he had landed in, here he was head of his house, fallen as it might have been.

As the static sound in the air around him fell away, Regulus walked back towards the four girls with chagrin faces and a furious looking McGonagall.

“What am I doing here?” he asked briskly not caring who answered.

“That’s an excellent question.”

At the interruption of such a deep voice, Regulus turned around in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt stepping through the floo. Despite the years that had passed the man was as familiar as ever. Shacklebolt had been the same age as his brother and had the massive misfortune of sharing a dorm with the Marauders during his time at the school. Another true Gryffindor Kingsley and Regulus had never got on, though Regulus had begrudgingly respected him slightly more than the majority of his red and gold clad compatriots.

Kingsley eyed Regulus for a moment before coming to stand between him and the girls on the sofa. _Ever the knight in glistening purple armour_ , Regulus thought meanly.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking some questions,” Kingsley asked, though his politeness was feigned.

Regulus responded in kind. “I would hope that you would answer some in return.”

“I think,” the curly haired witch spoke, drawing all eyes to her. “I think someone should call Harry.”

* * *

Regulus subtly shook his head as the occupants of the room argued over protocol and next steps. At some point, another couple of professors had joined the fray, and there was a rolling debate over whether they could handle what was going on in the room, or whether they should head directly for the Ministry to begin more formal proceedings. Regulus found it somewhat comforting that even all these years into the future the side of the light still couldn’t organise themselves out of a paper bag.

He moved towards the curly haired witch who was the only one not speaking. The redhead and the mean looking girl had been chatting for a while, but they now seemed to have descended into an argument; the bright-eyed blond was deep in quiet discussion with a professor that Regulus didn’t recognise. The girls had crept to the back of the room, as far away from the Headmistress’ desk as possible, slightly dispersing as if trying to avoid bringing attention to themselves.

She didn’t look up as he stepped closer, and Regulus would have described the silence as almost companionable if he hadn’t had a million questions burning inside his chest.

“Your blood,” she said eventually, her voice only just audible over the increasing din in the room.

“Yes?” Regulus pressed, he had been waiting for all of this to die down so he could treat his wounds. The drying charm had done its job but it wasn’t the way fine robes - such as he had on - were supposed to be cared for, he could feel the hardened wool rubbing against the lacerations on his body. He would have asked for medical treatment, had he not felt like it would have been a complete indignity to be cared for by any of these people.

The witch at his side regarded him out of the corner of her eye. “Inferi.”

Regulus stepped forward, backing her further into the wall behind them. “How did you know that?” he demanded.

She raised a single eyebrow at his agitated expression. “This is the future, or at least _your future_ ,” she said as if that explained everything.  

Regulus felt his already stretched temper cracking. “Yes,” he hissed with exasperation. “But even so, no one was ever supposed to know that it was me.”

She snorted, and Regulus was almost overwhelmed with the need to throttle her. “Signing the note wasn’t your best move then,” she retorted though she blushed immediately, _she hadn’t meant to say it_.

“I did what I felt I had to do,” Regulus replied crisply, leaning against the wall next to her, and remembering with some shame what he had written the note. Across the room, McGonagall had gotten onto her feet and was wildly gesticulating as Kingsley put up both of his hands in submission.

“It was destroyed?” he asked, and he heard the witch sigh.

“Eventually,” she whispered a single word that seemed to contain a whole world of pain. He wanted, no _needed_ , to know more, but this wasn’t the time. He rubbed his jaw.

“I believe you have information for me.”

The witch’s eyes closed as her head fell back against the wall. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

* * *

After what felt like an eternity some consensus between the factions in the office was reached, and it was deemed that the ‘Harry’ the witch had mentioned would be sent for. Regulus had wondered if it was the girls’ betrothed, nothing else really made much sense as there couldn’t be anyone of higher authority that they would need to call in. The thought irritated him, though he didn’t question why.

Kingsley was one of the least happy with this decision, a feeling he made clear to Regulus when McGonagall drifted towards the floo.

“You will be released into Harry’s care, though I firmly believe the _right thing_ would be to take you to the Ministry. I have been persuaded to believe that those formalities can be undertaken at a later date. After all, we hardly want to cause fear in the streets until we have all of the answers.”

Regulus’ head cocked to the side as he regarded the man who had been made Minister for Magic after his fundamental role in the removal of the forces of ‘darkness’. He was sure he would have been more intimidated if it wasn’t woefully apparent that it was precisely the emotion the man was trying to pull from him.

“I am grateful, I’m sure,” Regulus said dismissively, standing back from the Minister and eyeing him curiously. “Perhaps if one of the witches I met before could escort me?”

The Minister’s eyes narrowed. “That won’t be necessary; Auror Potter is coming here.”

Regulus’ mouth ran dry, and Kingsley stepped away from him as the fireplace flashed green. A young man with messy dark hair and eschewed glasses stepped into the office with a bright, if somewhat confused, smile on his face.

“Minerva,” the boy asked with an air of one that was still testing the use of the name. “What do you need?”

The professor sighed and pointed the young Potter clad in Auror robes in Regulus’ direction. Both boys stared at each other for a long time before Harry whirled around on his heels, Regulus noted how even though the room contained several senior officials Harry’s eyes went instantly to the curly-haired witch who was tucked behind Kingsley’s shoulder.

“What?” he asked quietly, and the witch shrugged before Minerva took over the conversation. She told a tale that Regulus barely paid any attention to; spells colliding and a trip through time, all complete crap of course but the girls had got her to believe it.

There was another long delay as Potter was taken through what they knew before he came over to stand in front of Regulus and shakingly offered his hand.

“I’m currently staying at Grimmauld Place,” he divulged as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “It might be best for you to come back with me, for now.”

Regulus felt anger swell in his chest as he realised that what must have been James Potter’s son was living in his family home. He bit the inside of his mouth to hold back his the first five retorts that crossed his tongue and instead swung around to look at Kingsley, eyes flashing. “With the Minister’s permission?” he asked with condescension.

Kingsley nodded, though begrudging, and Regulus stepped towards the floo eager to get out of this room, he eyed the curly-haired witch as he left, he was far from finished with her.

“You will explain,” he commanded in a low voice, and she tucked her arms around herself before bestowing a single nod. Regulus looked back at her cast down eyes for a moment before following Harry through the floo.

* * *

It had taken the best part of two hours, but eventually, Harry had told him most of what had happened over the last two decades. It wasn’t enough detail, one person’s perspective never was, Regulus knew he would have to seek others out, ones that would have known what had allowed their Lord to fall, they had been so sure of victory in the time that Regulus had come from. Potter was unlikely to have the answers he needed or appreciate his viewpoint. Regulus held onto the resentment that another Potter had shared his brother with him. He wondered if the pain would never abate.

Eventually, he found himself in the Black family library, once again looking at the smudged mark that Sirius hid underneath. To Regulus only yesterday it had felt like his brother was so out of reach, now he really was.

He had more questions, hundreds of them. He hadn’t even begun to strike the surface of how or why he was there, but another feeling sat within him, one that he had to accept culpability for. He had wished for this, maybe not explicitly, but he had wanted there to be another road, somewhere for him to go, in his own time there had been nothing but death ahead of him, maybe now there would be.

Regulus looked down at the small leather wrap in his hand, containing the precious phials he had been given. At the end of the tale, Harry had pushed these into his hands.

-/-/-/-

_“The Ministry,” Harry had started before he paused, looking out of the window, “I may have indicated that these were lost during the Battle of Hogwarts.”_

_Regulus opened the unfurled the wrap carefully, closely eyeing the eight slim phials and their cloudy contents. “Whose memories?” he asked._

_“Severus Snape’s.”_

_Unconsciously Regulus’ fingers gripped the leather tighter._

_Harry looked at Regulus. “There are things in there, things that I didn’t fully understand, but I thought... I know you were friends.”_

_“Of a kind,” Regulus responded lightly, his relationship with Severus, with anyone, was certainly no business of Potter’s. “How did he meet his end?”_

_“Bravely,” Harry proclaimed, and Regulus fought against rolling his eyes. Bloody Gryffindors._

-/-/-/-

Regulus stepped into his old room; Harry had told him that most of the upstairs were untouched. Regulus had not been prepared for the decay; he had eyed Sirius name plaque as he went passed and determined that was an exploration for another day. He sealed the door behind him, once again silently thanking Merlin that he had been transported with his wand, and with a wave of his hand, a cavity was revealed in the wall. His mask was still there. His mother had been all for displaying it on the wall when he had first been marked, Regulus had been overcome with how gaudy that thought was, he had managed to convince her hiding it was necessary, in the very likely event of a raid it would certainly not have looked good. She had eventually agreed, though not without complaining about it.

Regulus shifted the mask to the side and placed the memories next to it for safekeeping before flopping down on his lumpy bed, his eyes level with the empty frame in front of him.

“You may as well reveal yourself,” he declared tiredly and met Phineas’ gaze head-on.

“I told you not to leave,” the portrait announced and Regulus sighed, that conversation could wait, other things could not.

“Tell me about the girls.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione watched Regulus’ back as he sauntered towards the painting of his ancestor, trying for the hundredth time to quell the sick feeling in her stomach. They had done this; somehow they had wrenched a man forward in time, and into a world that was nothing like the one he had left. There was so much to tell Regulus so much that had happened, Hermione didn’t know where to begin.

The overwhelming dread that felt like it was expanding within her was hardly a new feeling. It wasn’t as though Hermione had never had cause to regret an action before. She was self-aware enough to look back at her past behaviours objectively, she had overreacted plenty of times in her life, and in some instances, those choices had hurt people, badly. However, in those cases, she had always found ways to absolve herself, eventually, because her reasoning had been sound. This, this sinking pit of a nightmare, this was down to stupidity, and worse, vanity, and it had led to the course of a life being derailed.

The Headmistress began hollering almost as soon as Regulus’ back was turned and Hermione bit her lip, this was going to be bad, _really bad_. Professor McGonagall hadn’t looked so disappointed since Hermione had lied about going after the troll in the first year.

Hermione fell into conciliatory behaviour, the body language that people learn as children; _shrink down into yourself, avert your eyes, nod to show that you are listening_. It felt strange getting told off without the boys, usually by this point Hermione would have been stamping on Harry’s foot so he would know just how annoyed she was to be dragged into another foolhardy escapade. There was no one else to blame this time; she hadn’t blindly followed anyone here. Hermione had let her curiosity get the better of her sense, and now she had to explain herself to a woman that had probably never let that happen once in her entire life.

The Headmistresses wand clipped the edge of her worn desk and red; angry sparks shot off in every direction. Hermione should have been pinned back in her seat by fear, however, despite the harsh anger in front of her, the professor didn’t have all of Hermione’s attention.

Hermione studied the extended cut she could still see along the line of Regulus’ throat. It wasn’t a standard wound; the edges were torn and already looked faintly infected, the skin surrounding it looked unnaturally chewed up. Her eyes fell back in her lap, as much as she didn’t want to be Hermione was sure she knew _exactly_ where, or rather _when_ Regulus had come from. The lacerations, the water, the confusion. He had been in the cave. While Hermione could at least be thankful that she hadn’t undermined the current timeline, the knowledge of what Regulus had been facing only an hour or so before made her feel a hundred times worse. _How many times had she read his diary? How many times had she tried to picture him in his last few days?_ Back then such thoughts were hypothetical, based on an idea of him she had pieced together in her mind. Even when they had been living in Grimmauld during the hunt, he had only been fiction, a romantic anti-hero that the world never cared enough about. Regulus Black had never been flesh and blood, not like he was now.

“What in Merlin’s name were you four doing?”

Every one of the girls on the sofa jumped as the Headmistress screamed again, even Ginny and Pansy, who typically scoffed at being affected by a sound telling off. Hermione took what comfort she could from the fact they were all pressed together. At least she wasn’t alone, it stopped her shaking quite as much as she might have done otherwise, but her mouth was still as dry as a bone.

“I’m waiting,” Professor McGonagall sniped, and Hermione sucked in a huge breath.  

“Well,” she began quietly, the word coming out her mouth without any indication of which ones she might use to follow it. Hermione had no idea how to explain the events of that evening. The truth was so ridiculous she knew it would be believed, _who would make something like that up?_ But this wasn’t school trouble; this was government level trouble. When they knew what they had done they would want to test it, test them, however innocent their intentions had been they had essentially brought a man back from the dead.

Up until that very moment, Hermione had thought of her sense of vanity as more dormant than in the average teenage girl, but as she sat on the threadbare sofa trying to piece together another sentence, it reared its head. She was embarrassed she realised, and somehow that discomfort made her just as mute as her fear of reprisals. It was humiliating to have to admit that she had consented to something as frivolous as a Soulmate Spell, according to the others that type of thing was normally done at children’s parties. Hers had brought this man forward, and he didn’t know that was why he was here, _how would he even react?_

“Miss Granger,” the Headmistress prompted, and Hermione wrung her hands in front of herself.

“The thing is,” she tried again before she had the horrible realisation that her eyes were welling up. Hermione looked over at Regulus. Both he, and the portrait he was watching with rapt attention had stopped talking, if it were possible, he looked even paler than he had when he had first fallen in their room.

There was nothing for it, Hermione squared her shoulders and raised her head, she had been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, if she could face the forces of Voldemort she could do this, she just had to open her…

“It was an accident,” Pansy chimed in, as she reached forward and squeezed Hermione’s thigh.

Hermione suppressed a squeak as Pansy’s perfectly filed nails bit into her skin. _What was she doing?_

“An accident,” their professor parroted, her accent becoming thicker by the second. “Pray do elaborate Miss Parkinson, and while you’re at it see that you provide a satisfactory explanation of how a simple _accident_ could have brought a man twenty years through time.”

Pansy sat forward and straightened her neck, her eyes dead ahead. Hermione found herself admiring her friend’s bravado; Pansy would go toe-to-toe with the devil himself if she were so inclined.

“We were practising spells, in our dorm,” Pansy calmly began as if she had been asked to do nothing more than read the next section of a textbook. “We were on different sides of the room not paying much attention to each other, and then three of our spells sort of collided.” she continued, making a clapping motion with her hands. “We weren’t sure what had happened at first, the lights went out, and there was a whooshing sound, and then when they came back on, he was there, in the middle of us.”

Hermione stared straight ahead, determined not to say anything lest she undid all of what Pansy was constructing with a single look. She knew that her predilection for honesty was as well known among the staff as it was the students, as such she wasn’t surprised to see the Headmistresses’ eyes fall to her every few seconds. However, even the professor in front of her underestimated what Hermione was capable of. While she might have _preferred_ honesty, she was more than happy to switch off her moral compass when it was needed.

Hermione continued to sit quietly while Professor McGonagall questioned Pansy about every aspect of the explanation she had given. Pansy never so much as flinched. Hermione had learned a lot about the girl next to her over this one term, and right now she was learning just how good a liar Pansy was.

* * *

By the time Kingsley emerged through the Floo, Hermione had half convinced herself she was going to be carted off to Azkaban, the tension in the room was beginning to get to her. She wondered how long she would be able to stand firm under the Headmistresses disapproving gaze before she melted into a puddle of remorse and told her everything she wanted to know. She kept thinking about Narcissa Malfoy, a woman who despite having Voldemort living in her home, had turned up at the final battle looking as if she had never let a hair escape its rightful place in the whole of her life. A woman who had turned to face the darkest wizard of documented time and lied through her perfect teeth. Hermione wasn’t sure she was made of the same metal as that, all she wanted to do was go back to her room, climb under the covers and pretend that none of this had happened.

When the voices around them began to rise Ginny subtly indicated that they should move out of the line of fire, and shuffling slightly, Hermione complied. She found herself along the back wall of the circular room, watching proceedings with a gnawing sense of foreboding. It was all she could do not to run forward and hug him when Harry arrived, just the sight of him made the convulsing muscles in Hermione’s stomach relax.

Harry looked to her, like he always did, though this time she had little more to offer him than a shrug, she thanked their years of friendship when he let it go quickly, at least for now, Hermione knew she would have to answer all of his questions at some point.

After an awkward introduction, Harry invited Regulus to stay with him at Grimmauld, something that Hermione was sure would have angered the time traveller no end. She had almost allowed herself to exhale when the fireplace flashed again and Harry disappeared, that was before Regulus stopped in front of her, lowly extorting a promise that she would explain.

When Regulus finally left Hermione thought she might faint, and the feeling of weakness must have shown on her face as she felt a large hand press onto her shoulder and Kingsley stooped to her eye level.

“Miss Granger, _Hermione_ ,” he said with a slight grin, “Are you okay?”

“Yes Minister, _Kingsley_ ,” she replied, trying to match his warm countenance and failing spectacularly. “I’m fine.”

Professor McGonagall got to her feet and walked out from behind her desk. “Girls, you may go to bed, it is the end of term tomorrow, and you will need to be up early to make your Floo connection. I trust that you will keep this incident to yourselves until the Ministry has organised all that must be done?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” four voices chorused.

There was no danger of any of them discussing what had happened.

* * *

As soon as the grand office door closed behind them, Pansy rounded the girls up and frog-marched them down the spiral staircase and into a deserted corridor. When Luna opened her mouth to speak Pansy turned on her immediately, her face set in grim determination, effectively silencing the rest of them with one look.

“Not here,” she hissed and stormed back towards the dorm, the others could do little else but try to keep up.

Once they were behind their bedroom door, the lock fortified with what seemed like every spell Pansy could think of; the girls stood in the middle of the room eyeing each other awkwardly. Heedless of her wish not to glance, Hermione’s eyes kept drifting to the patch of carpet that he had appeared on. Even in the fading light, she could make out that it was still slightly damp.

“Before you ask me what I was thinking, Granger,” Pansy harshly began, “I acted before you did something to fuck yourself over.”

“But… do you not think it might have been better, to tell the truth?” Hermione asked.

“How did you get through the last few years and still come out the other side so naive?” Pansy seethed, “You’re an idiot if you think that would have been the best course of action.”

“But Professor McGonagall is fair, she would have listened,” Ginny protested scowling at Pansy’s ranting.

“Shut up, Weasley,” Pansy restored, folding her arms across her chest and stepping towards Hermione. “McGonagall is fair when you are on her side, but she is not on your side. If she thought Granger had done something she would have come down on her like a ton of bricks.”

Hermione wanted to object, to defend her teacher but as she stared at the scared girl who had been locked in the dungeons for speaking out of turn she found she couldn’t.

“We don’t offer _any_ information until we know what the fuck happened okay!” Pansy demanded, looking at each girl in turn. After receiving hesitant nods from all of them, she reached into the pocket of her robes. “Get your wands out; we’re doing an oath.”

Ginny frowned. “Surely this is overreacting?”

“Hermione?” Luna queried, but Hermione was already looking at Pansy, whatever she might have thought was the right thing to do, Pansy had been the one to take charge in the office and had likely saved all of their skins. She was willing to listen.

“You think this is necessary?” Hermione pressed.

Ginny, unhappy with being ignored, stomped her foot. “Hermione…”

“It is,” Pansy replied, ignoring the other girl’s outburst. “Wands out.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ginny huffed, but she got her wand out all the same.

“Get over yourself, Weasley; it’s an oath, not an unbreakable vow.”

Hermione felt a twinge of fear as she lifted her wand to cast, the evening hadn’t exactly been ordinary, and she wasn’t sure they would survive the experience if they had to knock on Professor McGonagall’s office door again. As the magic of their promises settled into her skin, Hermione placed her wand back on her bedside table and had a moment of prayer that she wouldn’t need it again anytime soon. The spell would only bind the others from talking without Hermione’s express permission, a wording that had surprised all of them. Hermione had expected them all to be similarly restricted, but she supposed she would have to speak at some point.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Luna asked as she pranced about the room, shrinking the large pillows from earlier in the evening and placing them back in the rightful places.

Hermione flopped down onto her bed, kicking her legs over the footboard. “Sure, I’ve just dragged a man through time and lied about it, not only to the Headmistress but the Minister for Magic as well. Regulus Black is supposedly my soulmate, a dead man, a death eater, a dead death eater.”

“I think you’re focusing too hard on the negatives,” Luna chided, falling onto her own bed and staring up at the ceiling. Hermione gaped at her like a fish. _Was she serious?_

“Look, we need to get to sleep, it’s the end of term tomorrow,” Ginny said, unusually acting as the voice of reason. Hermione supposed _someone_ needed to pick up her usual mantle; reason had somewhat fled her for the moment.

“How do you advise we do that?” Hermione asked, throwing an arm over her face. A clinking of glass had her peeking from the inside of her elbow at a grinning Ginny who was holding up the rest of the wine.

“I have a few ideas,” the redhead replied wiggling her eyebrows.

* * *

In the end, it only took a single glass of wine for the girls to be back on the floor, surrounded by cushions and bedding. Hermione had a whole lot to think about but no desire to mull any of it over. For once in her life she was able to appreciate an ostrich’s approach, burying her head in the sand was an incredible, if woefully transient feeling.

Hermione snuggled down into one of the yellowish blankets and nursed her second glass; she had been on her way to tipsy before the whole night had gone to hell and had unsurprisingly sobered in the Headmistresses office. She decided that if she were going to be an ostrich, she would be a pissed one or at least one that was far less lucid than she was now.

As Hermione laid back against the carpet she noticed a lamp on the floor, the shade was askew and there looked to be a hairline crack in the base, she remembered it as one of the objects that had been flying around them earlier and sighed. _No sand for this ostrich_.

“How did it happen?” she asked taking a swig of her drink.

“I don’t know Granger,” Pansy said, her nose back in her magazine. “Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

Ginny kicked her legs out and twanged a sock across the room before grinning at Pansy wickedly. “You mean Marcus Flint didn’t happen to land on the floor in front of you?”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “No, it was just his name, I mean,” she paused, gritting her teeth, “ _the_ name, Marcus, it appeared in this green ribbon thing and then disappeared a couple of seconds after.”

“How could it have been so different?” Hermione asked quietly; she could still see his eyes, grey and accusing, his dark wet hair falling into his face.

“Well,” Pansy began, and for the first time since Hermione had known her, her voice sounded hesitant, Hermione sat up.

“What?” she asked.

Pansy bit her lip. “The spell wasn’t the same.”

“What?”

“Normally it’s just a simple one line enchantment, one of those stupid rhyming ones, then done.”

Hermione felt like she had been stupefied, of course, the spell wouldn’t have been the same. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, too tired to feel irritated. “If you knew it wasn’t the same spell why did you join in?” she asked incredulously.

Pansy shrugged. “I thought all the added bits were for, you know, atmosphere.”

“Did that seem likely to you?”

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to control her temper; her fists were balling with every accelerated beat of her heart. “Luna?” she said, looking over in the blonde’s direction, the girl looked back with impossibly wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, that’s the only soul mate spell I know.”

Hermione felt like she would collapse in on herself, but there was no point getting angry, it was Luna, her actions weren’t malicious, she had done exactly what she had thought she had been asked to. “It’s okay Luna,” Hermione comforted mutedly, “what book did you get it from?” Maybe if she could find the text, she could use that as a shield when she went to see Regulus.

Luna began worrying the hem of her jumper. “It’s not from a book; it was one my mother taught me.”

“What is it supposed to do?”

Luna cocked her head to the side. “The details were never that clear, all I know is that it was designed to reveal your soulmate and…”

“And,” Hermione pressed, though she was not sure she wanted to know.

“And,” Luna replied quietly, “It is only supposed to work if _both_ people are prepared to face the knowledge and each other.”

“Right,” Hermione whispered.

Luna sat forward. “But it never, well, that has never happened before, even to my mother. Maybe it was the four of us together, maybe something about the particular time?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes falling longingly at the reminder of wine in the bottle. “How am I going to tell him?”

“I would suggest leaving it for now,” Ginny tried, “Harry is going to be looking after him.”

“I don’t want to lie,” Hermione moaned, pulling the cover over her head, she’d had enough lying one day, enough at least to be reminded she was terrible at it.

“Of course you don’t,” Pansy chided though she looked at Hermione almost kindly.

“It’s all going to be okay, Hermione,” Ginny said, smothering her in a hug. “Just, don’t expect him to be the most open to hearing this stuff right now, he’s dealing with a lot.”

The girls lapsed into silence, and Hermione debated getting into bed, there couldn’t be much left of the evening now and while she might not have been able to sleep it would be as well to try.

As Ginny yawned, Luna suddenly sat up straighter, displacing pillows as she lurched. “Shall we play a game?” she asked excitedly, as the rest of the girls looked at her in horror.

“What?”

* * *

Despite the lingering tension the wine had eventually done the job they intended it for, and by the time the third glass had passed Hermione’s lips her limbs had started to get heavy, and her mind finally slowed. For the first time in her life, she understood why her mother had continually described red wine as medicinal.

With lethargic movements, Hermione exited the dorm’s small adjoining bathroom and was taking the opportunity to pack up some of her toiletries when a low pop rang out in the circular room. Hermione had never had a nervous disposition, but given the events of the day she was sure she could be forgiven on this one occasion, which was a good job as the next time she looked down she realised she had leapt from her previous post and was now standing on her mattress, leaning to peek over the end of her bed.

A gentle scurrying sound made Hermione twist to the other side, and there was Kreacher, beside her bed, shuffling his feet nervously as he tugged on one of his oversized ears.

“Is it true?” the elf asked, his eyes gleaming. “Did Miss… is Master Regulus _here_? Is the Master back?”

Kreacher stepped forward, and his fingers twisted into Hermione’s bedding as if he could pull her closer that way. Hermione had only seen Kreacher a handful of times since the final battle, and all of those occasions had been brief. She had thought it for the best; the elf had never made any secret of his distaste for her and her kind. Hermione had never blamed him, at least she had tried not to, but she couldn’t help remembering his rough whispers of ‘Mudblood’ as she walked past him while on the Horcrux hunt, or his sneering face when she had defended him to an emotional Sirius as a child.

Once Hermione felt the shock of Kreacher’s unexpected arrival leave her body she got her legs moving again and stepped down to the floor. The evening had been awful, one of the worst she’d had and yet now, looking at the tiny elf Hermione realised that in all of the madness at least one soul was happy.

With no idea how to articulate the events of the last few hours she nodded, but it was enough. Kreacher took a substantial step back as if her tiny movement of affirmation had hit him in his chest. Hermione became worried that he would faint until he suddenly ran forward, darting at an incredible speed.

“Kreacher is,” he rasped out as his spindly arms wrapped around her and his head buried into her chest. “Kreacher is _sorry_.” The elf’s head wrenched back to look Hermione in the face and one of his tiny hands pressed against the scar that was covered by her long sleeves.

Hermione stilled. She wanted to ask Kreacher how he knew but really, it wasn’t relevant, she tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t been there that day, he hadn’t cut her. Then, as he looked up at her with swimming eyes Hermione thought she knew what Kreacher meant, he was just sorry for all of it. Sad that he had ever hurt the girl who had brought his Master back.

“It’s… it’s okay Kreacher; it’s okay.”

* * *

Once Luna turned out the lights the girls finally retreated to their beds, dislodging various piles of unorganised laundry as they did so. The other seemed to fall asleep quickly, and Hermione was left wide awake, gripping her bed covers and staring at the canopy. Logically she knew she couldn’t do anything else right now, but that knowledge didn’t seem to affect her subconscious.

As Hermione debated pulling a book from her bedside table, Pansy’s voice, much quieter than usual, cut across the room. “This won’t change our plans, will it?”

Hermione rolled over towards the girl’s bed, she couldn’t see Pansy clearly in the darkness, but she assumed that she was looking in the same direction.

“Why would it?” she asked with a yawn.

Pansy snorted. “I don’t know Granger,” she began sarcastically, “You might not want a _flatmate_ at the end of the school year, not now your dishy soulmate has been flung into the present.”

Hermione frowned. “I think you’re oversimplifying what might happen here.”

“Oh really? So you don’t find him attractive?” Pansy questioned, and Hermione pulled herself up onto her elbows so she could speak without raising her voice and disturbing the others.

“Of course I find him attractive,” she responded with a slight hiss. “He’s so perfect it’s ridiculous; he doesn’t even look real.”

Hermione flopped onto her front and pushed her head face down on the pillows, only just resisting the urge to scream into them. She had been trying to ignore her recollections of how beautiful Regulus was, but it couldn’t be helped, she could recall every detail of his face. He looked almost regal, with his savage angles and superior posture, he would have looked entirely like a prince from an old portrait if wasn’t for something arcane in his expression - the set of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes, the frayed edges of his smooth speech. Regulus had an underlying wild quality and almost feral energy; it unsettled Hermione. She wished more than anything that she didn’t find it so enticing.

“Are you going to tell him?” Pansy asked after a few beats of silence and Hermione sighed.

“I suppose I’m going to have to.”  _How would she even begin that conversation?_ “Though I don’t know how. I’m not sure I even believe in all that stuff.”

“Start, Hermione,” Pansy responded, uncharacteristically seriously. “We somehow managed to haul a man through time; I should imagine that would be proof enough, even for you.”

Hermione bit her lip, somehow the idea that it might be true was even more unsettling, she pushed the thought away, she didn’t have to worry about that bit yet, _one problem at a time_ , she could tell him what had happened and take her lead from him.

“And in any case,” Pansy continued, “if he gives you any shit, remind him that he would be dead right now if it weren’t for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, even though Pansy couldn’t see it, her friends approach to making friends and influencing people was decidedly different from her own. “I’m not sure I’m ready for such a direct approach.”

“You? You’re telling me that you’re intimidated, by a boy?” Pansy teased.

Hermione uncomfortably twisted in her bed. “He’s…” she began, searching for the right word, “scary.”

“Did he threaten you?” Pansy asked, her voice an exercise in poorly concealed malice.

“No, he was just, I don’t know, weirdly intense I guess.”

Hermione could hear Pansy relax from the other side of the room. “Yes, well, he’s a Black isn’t he? According to my mother, they were all a bit like that. I imagine once you get to know him that sort of thing will become rather hot.”

Hermione was glad of the darkness as heat rose in her face. “Who says we are going to get to know each other better?”

“Don’t be defensive,” Pansy chided, entirely too smugly. “It’s not like you can just wave him off and wish him a happy new start in life.”

“Right,” Hermione said, though it was anything but.

Their conversation lapsed, and she went back to studying the canopy above her bed. When she had first become friends with Pansy their discussions had led to her having a lot of headaches, Pansy was snarky, mean, and seemingly always about ten steps ahead. Hermione had come to think of it as another facet of pureblood behaviour; they approached those they didn’t know well as if each conversation was a fencing match, and every interaction was full of points to be won and concessions to be made. Hermione had never been good at fencing. She somehow suspected that Pansy would seem light and breezy in comparison to the young Black heir.

“I’ve already sorted out your room,” Hermione said in a lighter tone and turned herself to snuggle into her pillows.

“You have?” Pansy replied, and Hermione smiled at the girl’s transparent attempt to sound nonchalant.

“Yep,” Hermione confirmed, popping the ‘P’. “It’s lavender, with frilly white accents. You. Will. Hate. It.”

A cushion collided with the side of her head and heedless of the sleeping girls in the room Hermione burst out laughing.

* * *

Given the state of the dorm when the girls woke up, it was a miracle that they managed to pack their cases and get to the Floo on time. With most of the morning spent running around, there was little time for goodbyes, but they had all promised each other they would write soon.

After all of the chaos and bustle, Hermione’s little flat felt incredibly still and quiet. Once the door had closed behind her, all she could hear were her own footsteps and Crookshanks occasional meowing. Her beloved cat was the only one in Hermione’s immediate circle that had been happy about her buying her own place. Crookshanks, like herself, was a bit of a loner, and as much as she loved the Weasley’s, Hermione knew she could last so long at the Burrow. Harry had more pressingly offered her room at Grimmauld, but Hermione had never felt comfortable in the big, empty, decaying house. What she had needed was peace, space, and control, all of that came with her own set of keys.

An owl was waiting for her when she arrived, delivering a note from Harry, the parchment was typically untidy and informal in spite of the weight of the things they had to discuss. In a few short lines, her friend managed to convey that Regulus was still in his childhood home and that Harry had shared some information, though the two boys hadn’t spoken since.

Somewhere below a gripe about redoing a field exercise, Harry dropped in that he had given Regulus Snape’s memories. Hermione wondered how wise that had been. She knew Harry well enough to understand how his mind worked; Harry assessed people almost as if he had his own unconscious point system. This would then inform whether he believed a person to be good or bad, and all other decisions would hinge on which camp they fell in. To Harry, Regulus was Sirius’ brother, and a man who had struck out against his dark family, a misunderstood hero. It wasn’t that Hermione disputed any of that, far from it, but there was more to a person than the sum of their actions.

Hermione had seen the memories herself, though only once. Harry had sunk into a deep depression a few days after the war had ended and he had called her over, he needed to talk he had said, and Hermione had listened to his guilt before he pressed the cool phials into her fingers.

Hermione had a vague impression of what her professor’s last memories contained, but seeing them, living them out, all stitched together was a hard thing to swallow. It was more difficult for Harry, he had hated Snape since almost their first day of school, with reason, but still. Hermione had supported Harry’s decision not to tell the Ministry wholeheartedly. It felt like an invasion of Severus’ privacy; he had been allowed so few dignities in life; it would have been exceptionally cruel to steal another away from him now.

Harry had ended the note by asking what had happened the previous evening, in plainer language than he had dared use in front of the Headmistress. Hermione dropped into a chair and gazed out of the window. She supposed she would need to tell him if nothing else she would need someone to talk to. But she had to tell Regulus first.

* * *

Hermione was wrapped in as many layers as she could force onto her body when Harry opened the door to Grimmauld place the next day. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t mention it, though any reaction at all would have been hard to articulate given the triangle of buttered toast hanging out of the side of his mouth.

After another night of next to no sleep Hermione had thrown off her twisted bed covers with resolve, the encounter wouldn’t become any more pleasant by putting it off, so she had braved the wintery morning and walked over to the concealed townhouse.

“How is-” she began, only to be cut off by Harry’s voice, muffled by chewing.

“-He hasn’t come out of his old room.”

Hermione nodded, having no idea whether that was a good or bad sign. She followed Harry around the ground floor as he gathered up his work things, stopping in the corridor as he shrugged into the jacket of his robes.

“Are you going to tell me what is going on?” Harry asked, leaning against the crumbling bannister.

“Yes,” Hermione affirmed. “But I need to speak to him first.”

Harry glanced at her and then the ceiling for a moment as if weighing how that was likely to go. “Kingsley spoke to me yesterday, they are looking into what to do next, they have got the ball rolling with his reintroduction to, well, being alive I suppose.”

“What does that even entail?” Hermione asked, curious in spite of her anxiety.

“I’m not sure Kingsley knew, to be honest,” Harry replied with a rueful smile. “But I think it was something to do with the Department of Records.” Hermione nodded, thankful at least that she didn’t have to have any involvement in explaining herself at the Ministry, at least not yet.

“Did Kingsley mention anything about,” her voice lowered. “Sending him back?”

“No,” Harry said firmly, “after that incident in the Department of Mysteries I’m not sure there is a way, and, I think people would be reticent about advising that, considering what that would be consigning him too.”

He leant forward to kiss Hermione on the cheek and made towards the door, only to pause before touching the handle. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“I doubt it,” Hermione replied with a sigh, she couldn’t imagine an eventuality where she would still be in the house in ten hours, welcome or not.

“I wish you would reconsider being here for the holidays,” Harry said as he stepped out of the front door, Hermione went to join him at the threshold, looking at his purposely pitiful expression indulgently.

“I know, I’ll be over for Christmas day, and we can go to the Burrow together,” she said with false cheer.

“Speaking of the Burrow,” Harry began sheepishly. “I’m going to have to mention this to Ron today.”

Hermione winced, that was unlikely to go well. “Okay,” she replied without enthusiasm. “I’ll prepare myself as much as possible for that.”

Harry chuckled lightly before giving her a salute and disappearing down the cracked garden path.

* * *

If she was honest with herself, Hermione had planned on having another moment of pause to get her act together when she got to the top of the stairs, that plan, shaky as it was, was curtailed when she found that the door to Regulus’ room was open. Stealing her courage Hermione knocked and when it went unanswered for a full minute, she stepped inside anyway.

Regulus was perched on the end of his neatly made bed and looking through a book he must have claimed from the library. His robes looked different from the day before, and Hermione wondered whether he had different ones stored somewhere or if he had just transfigured what he had. If the latter, apparently nothing had been exaggerated about his magical prowess, replicating the thick brocade of his jacket would have taken Hermione hours.

He looked up as she shuffled into the room and Hermione suppressed a sigh, he was just as striking as ever, more so if that were possible. Struggling to uphold an air of unaffected calm she walked passed the bed and leant back against the wall opposite. Regulus’ eyes followed her as she moved and in a single glance, he seemed to convey that she was both intruding without invitation, and turning up late to one he sent days ago.

Hermione had planned to break the ice with some small talk; however, nothing was forthcoming. Her eyes fell to his bed, and she nearly blurted how she had slept there during the hunt. How she had wondered about the boy who wrote the diary as she stared at his ceiling. How she had wondered if he had been as scared as she was at that time.

“Hi,” Hermione managed eventually, the poor greeting even more ridiculous as she had been in his room for five minutes, locked in a silent standoff. “Err… this is awkward,” she muttered almost to herself and Regulus raised a single brow. “I’m not sure that I properly introduced myself yesterday… I’m-”

“Hermione _Granger_ , top student in your year, and brains of the ‘Golden Trio’, _apparently_. I know who you are,” Regulus stated dismissively in a smooth, cultured voice.

Hermione felt her hackles rising; she had spent enough time around blood purists to recognise the deliberate emphasis placed on her surname. She wanted to spit at him that he knew nothing about her, but she held her tongue, counting to three. A quiet part of her, one she wanted to box up and tuck into the deepest part of herself instantly wondered what his laugh would sound like, and how often he gave into mirth enough to let it ring out. She hoped the slight blush on her cheeks would be read as irritation as she tried again.

“Harry has left for the day so if you want breakfast or anything-”

“Why am I here Miss Granger?” Regulus asked cutting off her rambling; he eyed her coldly as he closed his book and placed it into the bedding next to his thigh. His entire being spoke of how he intended this interaction to go; he would be haughty, superior and treat her with clipped, feigned civility.

Hermione was sure Regulus set out to get the upper hand and yet in doing so had done her a favour. His rudeness, however prettily worded, had cut through her anxiety. She no longer felt the burden of getting through this politely. For all Regulus thought he had taken the measure of her, from whatever questionable ‘highlights’ he had received in such a short time, Hermione reminded herself that the boy sitting opposite knew nothing about her.

“My friends and I were spending the evening together, and after messing around for a while, we decided to play a few games. It was suggested that we try a simple enhancement that was supposed to reveal the name of your... soul mate.”

Hermione forced herself to look at Regulus’ face but quickly dropped her gaze when she saw his nostrils flare. “There was some… confusion over the spell we were doing and the next thing we knew you fell in.”

Regulus looked vaguely disgusted as he pinned her with an incredulous expression. “You cannot be… _no_ , there must be some other explanation.”

Hermione swallowed. “Not exactly the response one hopes to hear in such a situation, but no less than I expected.”

Regulus got to his feet. He was a good deal taller than Hermione but leaner in the shoulders than Sirius had been. Unconsciously Hermione pressed herself further into the wall at her back.

“A _soulmate spell_ , a child’s amusement,” he hissed as he edged closer. “A spell hinged on you pulled me through time?”

Hermione faltered. “Not quite, there was some confusion between us over what the spell was, my friend Luna cast, her experience and training in magic is less rigid than the rest of ours, it is likely that whatever she did was far stronger than even she intended.”

Regulus gritted his teeth for a moment before he looked down at Hermione, his face full of contempt. “Who else knows?” he gritted out.

“No one other than the girls that were there,” Hermione supplied instantly.

“And will they-”

Hermione shook her head, understanding his question. “Pansy made everyone undertake an oath.”

He grunted, crossing his arms over himself. “I suppose I should be comforted that at least one of you has some sense.”

Hermione bristled. “That was uncalled for.”

“Evidence to the contrary,” Regulus drawled, and Hermione remembered the cold satisfaction of slapping Malfoy in the third year. Right in his smug face. Her hand almost twitched to replicate the action, but she didn’t get a chance. Regulus took one last look at her before he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

“Hey,” Hermione called after him, struggling to catch up. “You can’t just walk away, I was talking to you.”

“One imagines,” a cold voice interrupted from the end of the corridor, “ _young_ Master Regulus can do whatever it is he wants.”


	5. Chapter 5

Regulus’ head snapped to the end of the corridor in time with Hermione’s. Their evident surprise was the first thing they had been in complete accord over since he had landed in her dorm the day before. He squinted his eyes in the dim light and his breath caught in his throat. The perfectly coiffured, statuesque blonde at the end of the corridor was achingly familiar.

“Narcissa?”

“Hello, Regulus.”

He knew that he had travelled through time, on some level he had even accepted it, but looking into his cousin’s face the reality of what that meant hit him for the first time. _She had aged_. The simple statement rang through his mind. Narcissa was still beautiful, heart-stoppingly so, but she didn’t look the same as she had.

Unlike Regulus’ other cousins, Narcissa’s transformation from a young girl to a young woman had been jarring, for her, and everyone else. She changed so completely. As a child, she had been quiet, shy and impossibly caring towards almost every person she met. Andromeda leaving her family home had forced her to grow up quickly, too quickly. Seemingly overnight Narcissa became distant and cold, even with Regulus, and they had once been close. Regulus had still seen her, at the occasional Death Eater meeting when she would be there with the rest of the young wives, and he used to believe he could still see hints of her former self; in the tone of her voice or the occasional softness in her eyes, but he had convinced himself he imagined it. Looking at her now, all trace of the child she had been was gone.

His eyes darted quickly to the corridors other occupant, remembering after a beat that she was still there. Hermione was stuck still, almost as if she had been locked into place the moment the voice had sounded; one of her arms was frozen in the air, and her too wide eyes were set on Narcissa’s. Regulus was momentarily overwhelmed with a desire to flutter his hand in front of her face and break her from the trance. After another long moment Hermione gathered herself and releasing a heavy breath, she stepped forward.

“Mrs Malfoy,” she greeted softly.

Narcissa minutely inclined her head. “Miss Granger, would you mind leaving us for a moment?”

“Not a problem,” Hermione replied instantly. “I was just leaving.”

She walked past him without making eye contact, and Regulus filed away her reaction for further consideration later. Narcissa moved further down the corridor where he could see her better, though both remained in silence until the creak of the very bottom step rang through the house and the front door quietly closed.

“You’re real?” Narcissa probed, raising her wand as if she would test it somehow.

Regulus opened his arms away from his body, inviting her inspection. “As you see.”

A trace of emotion crossed Narcissa’s face before it shuttered away again. “I didn’t believe it when I heard; I had to come straight here.”

“How did you get in?” Regulus asked with interest. Though the house was crumbling, it hadn’t occurred to him that he was unsafe from more than just the usual pitfalls of structural instability.

Narcissa fluttered a manicured hand as if it was nothing. “This is a Black family residence, and the wards were nothing to me.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes at her very redacted statement; there was a lot more to it than that. “My wards would have kept you out,” he asserted.

“Oh,” she answered lightly. “That’s as maybe, but I don’t believe you set the ones currently in place.”

Regulus opened his mouth to retort, but Narcissa held up a hand stopping him in an instant. “Not here.”

* * *

Regulus found the crunch of gravel underfoot soothing as he fell into step beside Narcissa. His first side along apparition since Kreacher had taken him to the caves had not been a fun experience. He had opened his eyes half expecting to find his toes resting at a cliff edge again, rather than looking up at the prospect of Malfoy Manor in the dawning light.

If he had thought that the witch next to him had changed, it was nothing to how stark the difference in her home was. Regulus had never liked Malfoy Manor. Visits, when he was a boy, had meant donning itchy, formal robes and sitting in uncomfortable chairs as he tried to wrestle Sirius into keeping still and quiet. Visits, when he had been a young man, had been just as bad; another set of robes that pricked at his skin and another uncomfortable room, only on those visits there had been no Sirius, and no-one needed to be told how important it was to not draw attention to yourself.

The place had been opulent once upon a time, ‘ _a jewel in the crown of wizarding interiors_ ’ a magazine had once said. The Malfoy’s had always liked shiny things, collecting objects over generations to pad out their envied nest. The very bricks had seemed to sparkle ostentatiously, hinting at the treasures contained within. But not now. Regulus watched the first rays of sun glide over the roof and prepared to catalogued the changes, but there was nothing he could pinpoint, it was a feeling rather than a physical change. The entire property seemed dull as if enveloped in a shroud he couldn’t quite see, but it was there, he could sense it.

Despite all that, as the grand entry doors closed behind him, Regulus took in a huge gulp of air, and his chest seemed to inflate easier than it had since he had arrived through time. Different as everything was he clung to what he knew, he was back with _his_ people.

They settled into a small sitting room that Regulus didn’t remember having been in before as Narcissa began arranging cushions and an elf appeared with an overloaded tea tray.

“What happened?” Narcissa asked.

Regulus took a sip from his cup. It was the first time _he_ had been asked the question, and the first time he thought he might have some appreciation of why Hermione had been so hesitant to give a response. Now he knew all she knew; it put a new slant on the evening. Regulus understood her silence, and the wide eyes, and her fear. He didn’t empathise, it had been a damn stupid thing to do, but he understood.

“A series of spells colliding Miss Granger said,” Regulus lied smoothly.

Narcissa raised a single, shaped brow, but Regulus merely topped up his cup. Lying was a part of his world, and as it was so ingrained in them, no one would ever call you out directly. His peers may have asked questions around the topic to let you know that they suspected you, but you would not be pressed when you had decided not to be entirely truthful. On this occasion it was easier to mislead, Miss Parkinson had already crafted a narrative, and Regulus thought he might as well stick with the same story.

“And you believe her?” Narcissa inquired as she sat back into her chair with all the grace of a newly coronated Queen.

“What other reason could there be?” Regulus replied in an even tone with a question of his own. He had lied to more dangerous people than his cousin, with far more at stake; there was no reason for him to be flustered now.

Regulus picked up an elegant, almost see through biscuit, as Narcissa summoned another elf to refresh the tea things. He had nearly drunk three cups since he sat down which was hardly polite, but considering the swill that had been on offer at Grimmauld Place, it was hardly surprising.

As Narcissa began to talk about some of the people they knew - ‘so and so is now married, an imprudent match if ever there was one’ etc. etc. - Regulus’ mind began to wonder. He wasn’t entirely sure why his first instinct had been to cover up the real reason he was in the future, though he told himself that the information pertained to him as well as Hermione and until he worked out what it all meant it was best to keep it to a small circle of people. He needed to know more about _Hermione Granger_ , and his sources so far had been somewhat limited.

Regulus could picture Hermione’s face as she stood before him in his childhood bedroom, with her hair bouncing below shoulders that were draped in the rattiest jumper he had ever seen, and her face pinched in irritation. The memory of his discussion with Phineas about the girls swam to the front of his mind. Predictably, his Great Grandfather had been derogatory about all of them; _this Weasley generation was worse than the last, the Lovegood girl was mad as a box of frogs, and the Parkinson girl was too thorny to be a desired rose,_ but he saved most of his ire for Hermione Granger. Phineas was long-winded about that girl’s myriad failings, from her appearance to her attitude and yet the more he spoke, the more Regulus began to suspect a begrudging sort of fondness.

-/-/-/-

_“You like her,” he accused, and his Great Grandfather spluttered before slamming his glass down with a clatter._

_“I certainly do not,” he protested vehemently, and Regulus looked at him carefully._

_Phineas sagged back into his chair and placed a hand over his beard thoughtfully. “Severus did,” he said eventually, so quietly it was almost inaudible._

_“He said that?” Regulus blurted incredulously._

_Phineas came as close to rolling his eyes as a man of his stature ever did. “Of course not,” he said, his tone implying that he believed his Great Grandson was touched. “But he did. He liked so few people to any degree; it was rather obvious.”_

_Regulus waited for the portrait to continue as the man once again refilled his wine glass. “I found him once, during that year it got really bad, reading one of her old essays. Her original text was so profusely annotated by his heavy-handed scrawl it was barely legible, but he read it anyway, then tucked it back into a draw.”_

_“Did he?” Regulus asked, not really sure how to ask the question in his mind._

_Phineas gave him a withering look “Don’t be crass. His feelings were not of that nature. He just… cared.”_

-/-/-/-

After that strange interlude, his Great Grandfather had recovered himself and gone onto a spectacularly long rant about the girl, further talk of her parentage, her legendary stubbornness and general inability to know her place.

Regulus knew without question that if his mother had been alive, she would have absolutely hated Hermione Granger. Potter had confirmed it when he spoke about Walburga’s portrait still being present in what had become their Order safe house. Regulus had covered his slight smile with his hand as Potter had lamented the abuse his mother had dished out to the fighters of the Light, but it was gone now, finally prized off the wall and destroyed after the war. Regulus couldn’t say he was sorry for it.

Apparently, his mother’s portrait had enough of the living woman Walburga had been soaked into its paint, to take a particular dislike to the curly-haired witch being in her former home, and had ranted about the stain to anyone who would listen. Sirius, Regulus imagined, would have loved that. He wondered what his brother would have thought of this little development, someone like Hermione Granger would have been the perfect act of rebellion for his reckless Gryffindor relation.

But for all of his calm information gathering, Regulus wasn’t focussed on who or what Hermione was, so much as the link they now shared. For all intents and purposes, he was indebted to someone again. He had checked his mark as soon as he had privacy in Grimmauld Place, the ink had faded, visual proof if anywhere needed that his servitude was over. And yet, another string bound him to another. Not a master in this case, thankfully, but a binding all the same.

“You may stay here of course,” Narcissa said as she refreshed his cup. If she had noticed Regulus slip off into his own world for several minutes, she didn’t acknowledge it.

Regulus considered the quiet of the house and turned to his cousin. “Lucius?” he inquired softly.

A shadow fell over her face, and the shroud over the house suddenly made more sense. “Azkaban,” she replied succinctly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Narcissa said airily. “He will be out soon enough. Probably sooner than he deserves.”

Regulus laughed internally at that; he had no doubt it was true, the only thing shinier than Lucius house was his famously silver tongue.

Once Regulus had greedily consumed another cup of tea, Narcissa took him back to the central staircase and up to the family wing to show him to his room. Regulus regarded it from the threshold, it was comfortable, airy, and far less grand than her usual taste ran to; the room was saturated with dark woods and green fabrics. Narcissa was as ever, the consummate hostess, anticipating her guest’s needs without them ever having to ask.

“Draco is not here, though he should be back this evening,” she said as he took a step inside and Regulus turned to look back at her face which had closed off again. Maybe that was for the best, it would give him a few more hours to prepare himself before he met her son, who was almost the same age as he was.

Regulus placed his bag containing the meagre possessions he had gathered up from Grimmauld on the bed and eyed Narcissa who was hovering unusually awkwardly.

“Regulus,” she began, “I assume you have been told about Sirius… I...”

Regulus cut her off. “It wasn’t you, it was Bella.”

Narcissa nodded. “I know, still… I,” she shook herself a little before her countenance finally firmed. “I will fall in line with whatever you decree.”

“That would be a first,” Regulus offered with the hint of a smile which his cousin returned.

“Is there anything you need?”

“A pensieve,” Regulus replied softly, glancing over at his packed bag.

“Of course,” she replied looking at him curiously. “I’ll have one sent up.”

In a swish of skirts, she made to leave the room, and Regulus bounded forward calling out to her to stop. “Narcissa,” he said as he reached out for her hand, pressing her soft palm firmly into his own. “I am glad you are safe.”

Narcissa placed her free hand over his, “You too Regulus, you too.”

* * *

Regulus stared at the grey bowl on the desk in front of him and skyed himself up. Just like everything else in the manor it was over the top. Even Walburga had only had a pensieve carved out of the darkest granite. This bowl had what looked like a mother of pearl inlay. Regulus peered over the edge of the pensieve with the same amount of trepidation that he had felt not so long ago, once again looking down at ominous swirling waters.

Just as Narcissa had promised the pensieve had been brought up to the room quickly, by yet another elf who had bowed and scraped despite the immense weight he had been carrying. Regulus sighed in irritation as the tiny creature backed out of the room, bowing as he went.

When the door finally closed again, Regulus clicked his neck and shook out his shoulders. The memories Potter had given him had almost burnt a hole in his pocket, but now that he had the equipment and privacy to view them he hesitated. This was to be the last message he would ever have from his friend, and it hadn’t been intended for him, Severus had died assuming he was already dead.

Death had become the reality of their lives, other friends, acquaintances and even family, distant in Regulus’ case, had fallen, but he expected his demise had hit Severus especially hard. The assumption wasn’t routed in any arrogance on his part, Regulus had never overestimated his importance to anyone, yet he understood Severus, the boy had very few people of any significance around him, he could have scarcely afforded to lose another.

Back when Regulus was still preparing for the task he had taken onto his shoulders, he would often wake at midnight and ward his room so he could work on the fake locket. During those twilight hours he would allow his mind to wander, he had imagined Severus’ adult life a thousand times, and Regulus was too much of realist to believe that his friend would go on to be blissfully happy. He had hoped for contentment for him, and as he had apparated away to the cave, Regulus had given himself leave to end the thought in his mind. Now he was faced with uncovering the reality even contentment seemed optimistic.

Regulus opened the wrap and spread it out along the bedspread, eyeing up the eight equally spaced phials speculatively. Procrastination would get him nowhere. He opened the one Potter had indicated first with a soft sigh of resignation, at least the boy was seemingly bright enough to have left them in some kind of order. The stopper released with a wet pop and he carefully poured the contents into the swirling grey mist as he pressed his head into it.

Moments later Regulus pulled himself out of the pensieve, spluttering and blinking at the contrasting bright light in the room compared to the murky darkness of Severus’ memories. He deliberately didn’t give himself a chance to think, he extracted the current memory and poured in the next one, plunging himself back into the depths of Severus’ mind over and over. Regulus knew if stopped he wouldn’t want to restart.

Potter had given him some vague indication that at one time all of this had been one memory, now that Regulus had watched them play out in front of him like some grief ridden tragedy he could do nothing to influence, he could understand the desire to chop it up into _manageable_ portions. It would have been a necessity for further viewing, not that he had got the impression from Potter that the boy had ever rewatched them. Once was very clearly enough.

Regulus wondered at Potter giving him such information; he had handed over the wrap with so little preamble and no word of caution to protect either the secrets that were contained within or that he still had them in his possession. Regulus speculated as to whether the boy would have given them to anyone else. He certainly hoped not. Severus would have been mortified.

Regulus laid back on the bed and shut his eyes, when that didn’t work he looked up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the ornate plaster roses as he remembered Dumbledore telling Severus that he would have to be the one to tell them. Regulus wondered if the Headmaster had known what he had asked of Severus if he had even cared? Yet, reveal it Severus had, as commanded, and not to a stranger but to Harry, Harry the son of James, James who he had loathed.

Regulus felt bone tired, but as his eyes flitted closed again the image of Severus crouched over a prone Lily Potter, sobbing into her hair, swam before his eyes and he opened them again.

Severus had loved Lily, loved her right to the end. Regulus supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, after all, he had often suspected that his friend’s feelings had lingered, he had probed Severus about the redhead often enough in the small hours of the morning after too much Firewhisky. But he had never expected the strength they had, what the mere thought of her death would compel Severus to do, the grief that unfolded when she perished, or the hold that her memory retained over him until his last breath.

He could have told him Regulus realised. He could have told him everything. Severus would have understood; he was on the cusp of choosing a different path himself, Severus would not have betrayed him.

The image of Severus begging at Dumbledore’s feet had unsettled him, Regulus’ first thought was disbelief quickly followed by an assertion that he would never have done such a thing. _But might he have done? If Sirius was in danger?_ He would never know now.

All that Severus had got for his grazed knees and humiliation had been the same life of servitude, only under a different master. The girl he loved hadn’t been saved.

Yet, Regulus thought as he pulled a blanket over himself, he could have told him.

* * *

Regulus didn’t know how long he had slept when he was woken up by an instant tapping at the window. Reluctantly he pulled himself up from under the covers and let the bird in. It was Potter’s owl; he had noticed the large grey bird as it sat on a high perch in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place.

The note was from Hermione; Regulus should have known on sight that the neat script hadn’t belonged to Potter, though he was thrown by her delivery method. _Did she not have her own owl? Or had she already been over to tell Harry everything that had happened earlier, making snarky remarks about him and spilling their shared secret?_

Regulus unfolded what turned out to be a concise note in his fingers. He had expected more writing, a continuation of her behaviour from earlier, some admonishment for him, but there was nothing; the letter contained no tone of reproach, no tone of anything. It read as if they had never met in person; it was impersonal, cordial and to the point. Hermione explained that she had seen Kreacher and that his personal elf was now aware Regulus was returned to the land of the living, and it had occurred to her that he might not have known Kreacher was still alive.

_Just thought you should know._

Regulus had no idea why Kreacher was at Hogwarts instead of at Grimmauld yet he decided to save that for another day. He looked back at the note. Hermione clearly didn’t intend to see him again, she could have used this information to barge back into his life, but she had sent it to him like it was the last thing outstanding between them. Like she was tying up a loose end before she declared the matter closed.

_Like Hell it was._

Regulus thought back to his treatment of her before, he had hardly been gallant, but he had been irritated, sat in his withered family home, _allowed_ to be there by a Potter, of all people, and Hermione had been so disarming just turning up as she had. He had seen how hard she had been fighting to hold onto all of her emotions, and he had fallen back into his normal behaviour and prodded at her until she exploded. _He hadn’t felt in control so why should she have been allowed to be?_

* * *

Sometime later Regulus made his way back down the grand staircase into a much more familiar room that was lined with dark cabinets and dotted with huge armchairs. He poured himself a liberal measure from the first decanter he came across and sank into the nearest chair. He heard Narcissa before he saw her, her heels clicking on the polished floor, announcing her arrival.

“Excuse me,” Regulus said, shaking the glass in his fingers.

“I am well accustomed to the men of this house slinking off to drink in darkened corners,” Narcissa sniffed, before pouring herself a small glass of wine and eying him over the gilded rim. “I understand this is challenging,” she began impassively, as she sat opposite and smoothed out her skirts.

“But?” Regulus prompted shortly.

“You’re wallowing,” she stated plainly, and Regulus felt his irritation rise.

“I thought I was going to die,” he said between gritted teeth, “Yesterday”.

Narcissa tilted her head, and her perfect curtain of blonde hair fell forward as she studied him. “And you haven’t. You can resurrect the family, Regulus, don’t you understand?”

Regulus sighed and summoned the decanter to the small table near his feet. “You look so different,” he uttered quietly, “everything looks so different.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Narcissa pulled an envelope from the inside of her robes and pushed it into Regulus’ fingers. He split the seal and poured the heavy object he had suspected lay inside into his outstretched palm. The glinting stone of his family ring shone a dotted pattern onto a nearby sideboard.

“It was passed to me when Walburga died,” Narcissa explained as Regulus pulled the heir’s ring off his finger and replaced it with what his father had always worn.

“By rights, you could take back Grimmauld Place,” Narcissa continued though Regulus kept looking at his hand.

“I don’t want it,” he said slowly, not wanting to think about the hollowness of his former home.

“What about-”

“-I don’t want the bloody tapestry,” he bit out, and then there was quiet.

“What happened, Narcissa?” he asked after he had drained his second glass. Narcissa looked down at her own before summoning his decanter to herself. That didn’t bode well.

* * *

After a fair amount of alcohol and a longer conversation than he wanted to tolerate on an unscheduled stop at Grimmauld Place, Regulus turned up at Hermione Granger’s flat. He wasn’t drunk, not by a long stretch, but the alcohol in his system had stopped him questioning whether this was a particularly good idea.

He knocked on the door, more loudly than was probably necessary and stepped back to await it opening, which it did, a few moments later.

“Miss Granger,” he said as Hermione appeared, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the door, still standing behind it. “I don’t believe we finished our conversation earlier if you would be so kind as to invite me in.”

Hermione stared at him owlishly. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Well, no actually, it took me a little longer than I planned to arrive. I initially thought you would be at school, or at Grimmauld Place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who told you I was here?”

Regulus couldn’t help the slightly smug grin that crept over his mouth, happy that he had managed to put her on the back foot. “Scared?” he asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Seriously do they teach you that as children?” she asked before shrugging her shoulders. “Harry _eventually_ agreed that I could come home for a few days.”

“You’re Potter’s ward?” Regulus spluttered, wondering if he had perhaps underestimated the effect the whisky had had on him _when had he missed that?_

Her brow wrinkled with confusion. “No, I’m his _friend_.”

Regulus pushed that aside, he was clearly missing the bits of information that would allow this to all make sense and instead he peered around where she stood, still half covered by her front door. “You live by yourself?”

“For now,” she confirmed, nodding.

“For now?” he replied, feeling off-balance again. _How was it possible that he’d had four separate accounts of this girl and still had no idea about her?_ He instantly checked her fingers, not that her bare ones meant anything, not all witches wore rings.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice his distraction. “There is talk of Pansy moving in at the end of the school year.”

“Two women alone in a-”

“-Times have changed Mr Black,” Hermione interrupted him with her own smug little grin and Regulus conceded the point, even if a voice in the back of his head was telling him to say that ‘it apparently wasn’t for the better’ he shut it up, he needed to get inside at least before he reverted to type.

“So it would appear,” he muttered almost under his breath as his eyes fell again to the garish, multi-coloured clashing of her outfit.

“Problem?” she asked so saccharinely it set his teeth on edge.

“Well,” Regulus replied slowly, thinking about how to continue. He may not have known a great deal about the witch in front of him, but he could remember the feeling of her wand pressed against his neck clearly enough. He coughed before continuing with his nose slightly in the air. “A young lady wouldn’t have answered the door in such an outfit, in my time.”

Raw anger crossed Hermione’s face for a moment before she did the unthinkable, she laughed, right in his face. “I imagine,” she said, as she tried to control her outburst, “that a _young lady_ wouldn’t have answered the door at all in your time. And a young gentleman, such as yourself, wouldn’t have called on one such as me.”

Regulus said nothing, he knew he was being prodded, and he didn’t like it.

Hermione looked down, stepping a tiny it further out from behind the door and grabbing at some of the fabric covering her legs. “These are Pokemon pyjamas,” she explained, pointing to one face out of the mass of characters, “this is Snorlax, who is particularly appropriate for night wear as he likes to sleep, a lot.”

Regulus shot her a withering glare. “And this is what Muggles wear?” he asked as if the answer was of no import.

Hermione shot him one right back. “Some of them, but I’m hardly their representative. This choice is more of a personal thing, I liked the cartoons when I was a child so when I saw them I thought it would be a fun distraction, besides, in the rankings of what I have, this is practically a ball gown.”

Regulus ignored all of the terms he didn’t understand and instead focused on the gist of what she had said. “This is your smart nightwear?” he asked incredulously. _Where was the lace? The silk?_ Even satin, as much as he loathed the cheap feel of it, would have been an improvement on stretched cotton.

Hermione shrugged. “It matches and it’s vaguely new.”

Regulus thought he might have been getting a headache and the door wasn’t opening any wider whatever he said. “Might I come in?” he asked again, endeavouring to at least sound somewhat polite.

Hermione sighed in a very put upon way and stepped back to allow him entry. “Fine,” she agreed before walking down the hall. “Can I get you something to drink?” she called over her shoulder.

Regulus followed her through the dark flat, towards what appeared to be the only illuminated room, cataloguing all he saw. Some book titles caught his interest as well as a few unexpected artefacts, he couldn’t get a good look at the photos without properly stopping, and he did not want to get caught staring at her things.

He sat at the table she indicated as Hermione started rifling through cupboards. Regulus felt slightly insulted that he had been led into her kitchen as if he were some tradesperson, but he attempted to bite back his words and get through the encounter before the alcohol wore off.

“So,” he began conversationally, “Draco said something about you collecting men around you.”

Narcissa had been entirely correct, as usual, her son had returned in the early evening, from Merlin only knew where. He may have never met him before, but Regulus was astute enough to ascertain that Draco looked older than he should have done and weary beyond belief. Neither Malfoy mentioned it, and so Regulus did the same, moving through the introduction and sitting drinking with his second cousin long after Narcissa had left the room to check on dinner. Draco looked a great deal like Lucius had when he was at that age, only more hollow.

A clanging of glass brought him back to the room, and Regulus realised, with no small amount of irritation, that Hermione had made no response to his statement. “Hopeless men,” he pressed but if he expected ire he was to be disappointed.

“In _his_ opinion,” Hermione muttered before stepping over to the table with a bottle of whisky and two tumblers.

“Why are you here?” she asked as she took her own seat eying him carefully.

Regulus ran his tongue over his teeth, his attempt at small talk, though admittedly barbed had been derailed and he saw no further reason for pretence, he was in the flat now. “I want to get some explanations for things,” he said pouring for both of them.

Hermione watched the amber liquid drop into the glass before holding up her hand when it was a little over a quarter full. “I would have thought you had heard enough explanations for now,” she murmured, and Regulus turned that assessment over in his mind.

“Maybe,” he conceded thoughtfully, “but the versions I’ve had are diverse, and I need an honest account.”

“And you think I’m best placed to give that?” Hermione asked incredulously as she twisted her ridiculous curls up on top of her head.

“I think you owe me,” he replied in a harsh undertone, “that, and despite what some might have said about your _less stellar attributes_ , all were agreed on you being wedded to the idea of fairness, however warped your comprehension of it might be.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment. “Seven years of Severus Snape as a professor and Draco Malfoy as the school bully, and yet I think that might be the most condescending thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Regulus shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

“Fine,” she said eventually. “Where would you like me to begin?”

* * *

Regulus had stopped counting whisky by the time light starting creeping in from the kitchen window. Hermione had, despite her size, been able to keep up with him, though whether to dull the edge of the story she had to tell or to help her suffer through a conversation with him, Regulus couldn’t tell.

Despite the multiple sources, he had heard the unfolding of the war from so far, their stories had remained surprisingly consistent, though they had all focused on different things. Phineas on what it had done to the Sacred Twenty Eight and Wizarding Britain, Narcissa on her family, Potter on the weight on his shoulders and those that they had lost. Hermione however, her focus shifted as she went through; from the darkness of the Horcruxes, and the fear of being on the run, to the change in all those that were left behind. She didn’t shy away from the darker parts, nor did she seem to twist and turn the events to paint herself in the best light. She certainly didn’t tell him everything, but no one could have expected that of her, she divulged hard facts tempered with understanding far beyond her years, she even had a degree of sympathy for those that had been on Voldemort’s side, though not any empathy.

_“There were 7?” she said, leaning back._

Hermione had left the room a moment before, finally having exhausted everything she deemed essential to impart. As she refilled the glasses, an idea had apparently hit her, and she had gotten up with her eyes full of resolve. He hadn’t protested her departure; Regulus would need _days_ to allow everything to settle. Individual sentences were still echoing in his mind.

Seven.

Not even in his wildest imaginations, nor in all the time he had spent combing through the Black library, had Regulus expected that. At that time the prospect of a Horcrux had seemed so grim, so ridiculously evil that it had never once occurred to him that there would have been more than one.

Seven. _Seven_. Seven.

He hadn’t even destroyed _one_ , in the end, he had procured it, but no more. He had faced certain death, an army of undead monsters and Regulus hadn’t even prevented anyone else from having to face the same obstacle. If anything his actions had made it more difficult.

Hermione came back into the room and handed him a slim, familiar book, and instinctively Regulus’ hands gripped it in a proprietary hold. The soft black leather was more giving than he remembered, and his gold engraved initials more faded.

“You have read it?” he asked.

“I have,” she replied. “It was the key to a lot of things.”

Regulus cleared his throat, torn between feeling momentarily grateful for her words and painfully exposed by what she must have gleaned from the contents. That same feeling he had while viewing Severus’ memories returned, _how much had they all had to reveal to end this war?_ When Hermione made no indication she would prod him over any of the more banal contents Regulus attempted to steer the conversation away from himself and his diary.

“It can’t have been easy,” he said.

“It wasn’t.”

Her face darkened for a moment, and Regulus thought she might elaborate, but she remained mute. When the silence that had been sneaking up on them all night returned he poured the whisky again.

“Can you remember what it felt like?” Hermione asked as she looked out of the window, her hands unconsciously coming up to rest on her clavicle.

Regulus didn’t need her to elaborate.

“When I felt it in my palm it was like I could feel _him_ , a distilled metallic version of the presence that pressed against me when I knelt in front of him,” Regulus said looking at his glass and not the girl’s face. “There was power there certainly, and a lot of it, I could feel it calling me, but it was cloaked in darkness and drenched with fear. I only held it for a few minutes, but it felt like a dementor in some respects, it had a way of closing out the light.”

Hermione nodded. “We lived with the locket for a long time, we wore it, though I can’t really remember why now,” she looked at him with a wan smile. “Panic and a sorry lack of food made us even more impaired than usual when it came to strategy. It twisted us, against ourselves, against each other. It showed us our worst fears.”

Regulus said nothing though he did use two fingers of his right hand to edge Hermione’s glass towards her, she looked down at the table and quirked her head in thanks.

“By that point, I think we naively thought we knew what fear was, what we were most afraid of. We were wrong, _so wrong_.”

Regulus felt sweat bead on the back of his neck, something about her voice made him uncomfortable, Hermione seemed so far away while she remembered, as if her mind was no longer in the room, no longer aware he was even there.  

“Fear is a basic emotion,” Hermione continued. “It’s instinctive, primal even. You can’t control it, the more you feel, the more debilitated you are. That locket showed us the worst part of who we were, our biggest failings, all of our petty insecurities. It fed on us like a parasite, getting stronger every day, until its voice overpowered all of our own.”

Regulus didn’t know what to say to that and Hermione had apparently worn herself out again though she made no move to ask him to leave, so they drank in silence.

“What now?” she asked eventually, her eyes coming back into focus.

“Now I restore my family,” Regulus responded unemotionally. For a fleeting moment, he considered that she meant between them, but he quickly shut that voice up. “All paths were closed to me, I was going to die, now I have a path.”

Unconsciously his hand rubbed against his forearm until he noticed what he was doing and he dropped both arms under the table. “For you?” he asked quickly, deflecting away from himself.

“I am not sure yet,” Hermione replied with a sigh. “I have to speak with Kingsley soon, about options at the Ministry.”

Regulus frowned, it irritated him, her use of the man’s first name.

“I don’t think you like him much,” Hermione said in an amused tone, eyeing his pinched features knowingly.

Regulus shifted. “Did you ever meet someone that irked you, Miss Granger, just by existing?”

Hermione laughed, a startled little sound. “Yes,” she replied simply, once again surprising him with her complete, and unflinching honesty.

Regulus was reminded that she wasn’t like the pureblood girls he had grown up with, not the ones he really knew, but the ones who were paraded in front of him as he got closer to marriageable age. The over made up dolls who, on being asked such a question, would have fallen over themselves to assure him that they were _never_ even the slightest bit unhappy with anything or anyone.

Regulus nodded. “Well, imagine, Miss Granger, being thrown forward in time and finding out that person had become the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain.”

She snorted and judging by the expression on her face, she was no doubt picturing the very thing.

“You like him though,” Regulus said, managing to keep any hint of accusation from his tone.

“I do,” she replied, “though in deference to your dislike I should point out that I didn’t know him when he was a child, and we fought together. It has a way of bonding people don’t you find?”

“Yes,” Regulus replied earnestly. “Yes, I do.”


	6. Chapter 6

After the most peaceful Christmas in recent memory, Hermione was back at Grimmauld Place for New Year's, tucked under a blanket on a corduroy sofa in one of the small number of rooms that Harry had managed to redecorate fully. Progress with wrenching the townhouse into the current century was slow, mainly as the building itself seemed to be fighting against any change. At first, Hermione had wondered why Harry didn’t just abandon Grimmauld altogether and start afresh somewhere new, but to her friend that would have been like leaving Sirius behind, more so even than when his Godfather had quietly slipped through the veil.

Harry was sprawled out on the matching armchair, across the room, with a sleepy Ginny resting in his lap and Ron and Luna were crouched down, playing chess on the thick rug that covered the new flooring. It would have been a perfect evening Hermione thought, though it was blighted by her friends regularly returning to one topic of conversation, _Regulus Black_.

Hermione supposed she couldn't blame them, had the man been linked to anyone else but her she would have been insatiably curious, as it was the whole thing just made her uneasy. She didn’t like having mixed emotions when it came to people, though over the last few years it had become a necessity. Hermione also felt she held a little of the responsibility for the ‘open’ nature of the topic, and being irritated with herself was her least favourite pastime. The very day after Regulus had arrived at her flat she had barrelled over to Grimmauld Place to interrogate Harry on how the time traveller had gotten her address, making it two trips with Regulus being her primary purpose in as many days. Harry could be unobservant, verging on blind at times, but even he wouldn’t have missed a tell like that.

-/-/-/-

_Hermione marched into the hallway, following behind Harry, wincing as the unfiltered light from the kitchen attacked her eyes. She had drunk far more than she was used to the night before and was grateful she had managed to make it up the stairs to bed without injury._

_As Harry began to boil the kettle, Hermione stood right next to him, folding her arms across her chest and glaring until he looked at her._

_“What was I supposed to do Hermione?” he started, offering her a steaming mug which Hermione snatched up desperately. “He turned up late at night insisting that he be told where you were.”_

_“And you just told him?” Hermione questioned with a huff._

_Harry dropped into a seat at the table. “I didn’t know what else to do. Frankly, Regulus didn’t seem like he would take no for an answer, he said he needed to see you. That was all. Wasn’t it?”_

_Hermione looked into her cup at Harry’s suddenly hesitant tone; she hadn’t meant to worry her friend and was keen to reassure him but didn’t know what to say. Was that what Regulus had wanted? Mainly he seemed like he just wanted to talk. “I suppose,” she said noncommittally._

_“He brought back Severus’ memories in any case,” Harry informed her, pointing to the neatly folded wrap hiding in plain sight by the bread bin._

_“I still can't believe you gave those to him, Harry, what if he had told someone you had them?”_

_Harry shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that he's-”_

_“Sirius’ brother,” Hermione finished for him with a sigh. “Look, Harry, I understand your reasoning, but I think you need to process that Regulus is nothing like his brother, and quickly, for all our sakes.”_

_Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I know, just, you know…”_

_Hermione stretched across the table to cover his hand with hers. “I know,” she replied kindly, and she did._

_Regulus came from the same time as Harry’s parents, as Sirius and the rest of the Marauders, he was a key to unlocking a part of Harry’s past that had been snatched away from him again and again. Hermione just wanted her friend to exercise some caution; she wasn’t sure how willing a participant Regulus would be if Harry asked him to take a walk down memory lane. For one thing, all of that stuff that Sirius had remembered, all of that had just happened to Regulus; it wasn’t the same._

_“So,” Harry said, shaking off the heavy air in the room. “What did he have to say?”_

_Hermione dropped her head on the table. “I have so much to tell you, and you aren’t going to like any of it.”_

-/-/-/-

Hermione had told Harry everything; once the first truths began rolling past her lips so did everything else. Hermione had never been a good liar, but it was almost impossible for her to do so to Harry, and it was a relief to unburden herself. By the end of their conversation, Hermione had wholly forgiven Harry for giving out her address; she had seen enough of Regulus’ immovable nature in the last few days to empathise with the position Harry had been put in; the Black heir was not an easy man to refuse.

“I still can’t believe he woke up McGonagall,” Ginny said giggling to herself as she burrowed against Harry’s neck.

Hermione laughed before stretching and repositioning herself on the sofa; she had got back from Grimmauld after her chat with Harry to an angry looking bird, delivering an angrier looking note from the Headmistress. Apparently, Regulus saying that ‘he assumed she had been at Hogwarts’ was more than just idle conversation, the castle had been his first stop on his way to her flat.

“I can,” Harry replied. “When he was staying here, he kept himself to himself but half a day with the Malfoys must have recharged his pureblood batteries or something. He arrived on the doorstep all demanding and haughty asking for Hermione, but in this weirdly polite way, he never even raised his voice. He reminded me of…” Harry’s voice trailed off as he looked around the room clicking his fingers. “Ahhh, you know who I mean, Hermione… that guy, from that god-awful programme you made me watch.”

Hermione looked at Harry deliberately blankly, casually pulling at the blanket draped over her so that it covered the bottom of her face. “No idea, Harry.”

“ _Yes, you do!_ ” Harry urged, leaning forward and pointing. “That one where the guy gets all uppity but instead of just shouting he goes all ‘I’ll thank you, Madam, to say no more’, ah!” Harry exclaimed rubbing at his temples. “It will come to me.”

Hermione turned as if she was genuinely riveted by the chess game taking place on the floor, she knew he meant Pride and Prejudice, but she would rather eat glass than admit it. She had made Harry and Ron watch the television show with her over the summer, much to their open disgust, but it had been when they had got back from Australia, and they hadn't wanted to deny her any comfort.

Luna moved a pawn across the board, and Ron regarded the blonde with narrowed eyes. Hermione’s fingers fiddled with the edges of the blanket as she rested her head against the back of the sofa. _Regulus reminded Harry of Mr Darcy?_ Well, her friend hadn’t been watching the program _that_ closely.

“When are you going to see him again?” Luna asked as she wiped out Ron’s bishop with a wave of her hand. There was a resounding clatter of tiny swords on shields as the board adjusted between them.

“As far as I know, I’m not,” Hermione replied. “We covered everything off, sort of. I gave him his diary when he arrived at the flat, and I had already sent him a note letting him know that Kreacher was alive and well.”

“Well?” Ron repeated incredulously. “That might have been a bit of an overstatement.”

“Did you tell him Kreacher was at Hogwarts?” Ginny asked, and Hermione thought back through her somewhat foggy memory of their conversation.

“No,” she decided finally, “but I alluded to it. I didn’t think I would _need_ to say it outright. Regulus would have known by then that Kreacher wasn’t at Grimmauld, and I imagine their bond reactivated when he came back he can just summon him if he wants to.”

 _And he’s smart and somewhat compassionate_ , her mind supplied, Hermione tried not to roll her eyes at her own thoughts, lest one of her friends picked up on it; instead she let her mind wander to Regulus’ elf.  She hoped Regulus would think they had done their best for Kreacher; it had been decided that Grimmauld Place wasn’t the best place for the ageing elf, even with Harry in residence there was too much solitude. Kreacher didn’t appear overly enamoured with the idea of returning after the war, by that point Mundungus Fletcher had stolen away all of his treasures, and ‘his mistress’ was gone from the wall. Hermione had asked Dobby to find him a place in Hogwarts; it had done wonders for Winky after all. But if she was honest, she hadn’t held out much hope for the same level of improvement, that was until Kreacher had popped into her bedroom and hugged her.

With the questionable gift of hindsight, more of Kreacher's behaviour made a twisted sort of sense. Hermione believed that while serving a house full of blood purists hadn't been the best start; it had in fact been the years spent with only the locket for company that had really affected Kreacher. That and the fact that he couldn’t destroy it, meaning he couldn't fulfil the last wish of his _beloved_ master, a man he had been commanded to leave to face certain death.

“Do you think Regulus will go and see him?” Ginny asked.

“Of course he will,” Hermione replied with conviction, she hadn’t been lying when she said she had read Regulus’ diary, and not only the bits that were pertinent to the Horcrux hunt, his affection for the elf was genuine.

“What was he like, when he came to the flat?” Ron asked, and Hermione smiled. She had done her duty and told her friend about the spell, she couldn’t keep it from Ron, especially once Harry knew everything. If Ron had been unhappy about Pansy moving in at the end of the year, it was nothing compared to what he felt about Regulus Black _supposedly_ being ideally suited to her as a close friend or even romantic partner, as their soulmate status implied. His reaction had been predictably explosive, but he was _trying_ to be more level headed, under the threat of Ginny’s wand at least.

Hermione shrugged. “He was condescending and surly to start with, but once we got talking about the war, he seemed more understanding. He was opinionated but a good deal more pleasant than the last time we met.”

Harry scoffed. “Sounds it.”

“Maybe he grows on you?” Ginny offered.

“Like a rash,” Ron muttered.

There was a tremendous crash, and everyone looked at the floor where a gleeful Luna was sat up on her knees surveying her successful battle. “Check Mate,” she declared smugly.

“How did you-” Ron spluttered before he shook his head and joined Hermione on the sofa, refusing offers for another game. “Figures,” he said, once again returning to Hermione's least favourite subject of conversation. “After everything we thought, Regulus is just a Slytherin; a jumped up ponce like Malfoy and his cronies.”

“I’m not sure that's true,” Hermione said looking at her knees, feeling awkward about defending Regulus. “I’m not saying he was _nice_ , but I got the impression his behaviour was less about me being dirty, or beneath him, or whatever, and more about him having a poor reaction to not being in control.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Harry offered with a teasing smile.

“ _Soulmates_ ,” Luna agreed, tilting her head to the side and Ron grimaced.

“Why couldn't it have been Neville?” he complained.

“Why indeed?” Hermione lamented, though quietly she felt a tickling against her conscious. _Surely if it had been someone they had grown up with she would have known?_

* * *

Compared to the dread of arrival followed swiftly by boredom she experienced during the last term, Hermione had been positively jubilant in the first few weeks back at Hogwarts. She worried that her newfound sense of purpose indicated that she was becoming as dependant on angst in her life as Harry was, but quickly shut the thought away. She was happy to be back she told herself, it didn’t have anything to do with Regulus’ arrival. It was a shame she didn’t believe it.

Whatever might have been going on in the peripheries of her life, it couldn’t be held responsible for all of her vigour. The second term had always been Hermione’s favourite, by then she had learnt her timetable, got to know any new professors, and worked out her homework planner. It was at this time of year that Hermione thought the castle looked at its most beautiful, and she spent hours up in the towers watching the dark cloaks as small as dots meander across the snow-covered grounds while she made plans for the exams and beyond.

That particular Friday Hermione was walking through a busy corridor, going against the massive flow of students headed for dinner. Lessons were over for the day, but she would be missing out on the evening meal as she had been summoned to attend the Headmistresses office, and she thought she might know why. Though if her professor wanted any new information, Hermione was going to have to disappoint her.

She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Regulus Black since he had turned up at her flat before Christmas and demanded that she talk to him. For the most part, Hermione spent an increasing portion of her day trying to convince herself that she wasn’t bothered by his absence, after all, as she had said herself they had nothing else to say to each other.

The man was not easy to forget; however, it might have been simpler if Hermione didn’t see his elf almost everywhere she went. Kreacher was hovering, not in any genuinely annoying way, but he had developed a habit of popping up when she was in the library and asking if she needed anything. At first, Hermione had always said no, mainly on principle. She might not have been quite as misinformed as she had been as a child, but giving elves ‘orders’ still made her feel uncomfortable. After a while though it was clear that her lack of demands made Kreacher unhappy, and unable to stomach his forlorn expression, Hermione began making up tasks for him that she forced out of reluctant lips.

Then, in the third week of term, she had been tired, overdoing it, and trying to fit in a whole world of extra reading and not sleeping. When Kreacher popped up, as usual, he hesitated, instead of beginning his usual barrage of questions he eyed her warily before commenting, in his own typically elfish way, about the circles under her eyes. Hermione had asked him in some desperation if he might be able to find her a halfway decent cup of tea. Kreacher had been delighted at that, and now he only showed up more.

Hermione stopped when she reached the familiar gargoyles, and her eyes drifted to the parchment still in her fingers. “Tabby,” she said quietly and jumped back as the enormous masses of carved stone began to move. It didn’t matter how many years she spent in the magical world, she would always feel ridiculous whenever she did that.

Professor McGonagall was behind her desk when Hermione’s knock was answered, and she smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Hermione tried to tramp down her anguish; she had known all term that the Headmistress was disappointed in her, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Good Afternoon, Hermione, please take a seat.”

Hermione complied, sitting down neatly and trying to ignore the fact that no tea service had materialised on the desk. _Definitely not an informal chat then_.

“I have some documents for you,” the headmistress began, sliding some bound parchments across the desk. “Kingsley has been working with several departments in the Ministry in order to get everything together for Mr Black’s legal declaration of return. As part of that, we need to ensure that any questions over his _sudden_ arrival are answered. This is a script of what you girls have told us, a statement of sorts, please sign.”

Hermione looked down at the neatly written out page, at the bottom were places for six signatures, room for her and her friend's, Professor McGonagall as a witness, and finally Kingsley. Hermione was the first to be brought up. She picked up the quill from next to the parchment and inked it ready to apply her name.

“May I remind you,” the headmistress interjected, as her quill touched the page, “that this is a _legally binding document_ , what is contained within must be the absolute truth. I am sure I do not have to tell you, Hermione, that there are repercussions involved if you are found to be lying to the Ministry.”

Hermione’s hand wavered a fraction as the words settled onto her shoulders, she rolled her wrist and made a weak attempt to make it look as if she was once again studying the parchment to ensure everything was in order. Her heart felt like it would beat right out of her chest at any moment. Lying in the office had been one thing, Hermione herself had barely had to say anything; she had just nodded along as Pansy spoke. This was something different.

She lifted her hand again, blinking in surprise as it suddenly felt ten times heavier. It occurred to her, as she was sat there hesitating, that Regulus must have gone along with it, Pansy’s version of events. He knew the truth, she had told him, and if what the headmistress had said was true, he must have already had a few meetings with the Ministry and never let on a thing.

Hermione clenched her fingers for a second and then applied her signature, the result was shakier than usual, but it was done. She gathered together the parchment and handed it over to Professor McGonagall who placed it in her drawer and sighed.

“Be careful, Hermione.”

“Professor?”

The older witch sat forward in her seat and placed her hands on the desk between them. “Regulus Black is no Draco Malfoy. He is not a playground bully that the adults around him hoped would one day grow up a bit. Regulus was considered a dangerous man in his time. Not lost, not misunderstood, dangerous.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that, the grave warning had shocked her, mainly as she wasn’t sure why it was being given, but also because she couldn’t help but agree with it. “I haven’t seen Regulus since the Christmas holidays,” she settled on after a moment of pause, it was the truth at least, whether she wanted it to be or not.

“I think that might be for the best my dear,” Professor McGonagall said looking slightly buoyed.

Hermione left the office chewing on her lip.

* * *

Hermione was sat at one of the newly appointed smaller tables in the Great Hall, for once entirely alone. She found she didn’t lament the lack of company, something about having a steady group of friends made temporary solitude entirely bearable, and she took the opportunity to spread herself out. Hermione had been putting the final touches to her revision timetable for a few days, and while most people would have said it was far too early, she simply didn’t care. Hermione had never been one to apologise for doing things _her way_ , and if people had a problem with Muggle highlighter pens, they could go in search of someone who cared.

The hall was especially rambunctious that morning as the notice for Hogsmeade had gone up in the entryway the evening before. This particular Saturday was the weekend before Valentine's Day, and there were pockets of tittering teens and plotting students all over the place. For herself, Hermione couldn’t understand how anyone could still get excited about visiting the tiny Wizarding village, though she did think it was nice to see so many smiles on the student’s faces, she supposed when they were so confined any change was seen as a good thing.

Hermione was currently unsure if she would make it into Hogsmeade that weekend. Apparently, Pansy had seized the opportunity for the school to give some more freedom to the returning eighth years and had petitioned to be able to go to Muggle London for the day. This had caused a lot of excitement in their dorm, in all quarter’s bar Hermione’s. She didn't like shopping on the best of days, let alone on a Saturday in central London when there were sure to be hordes of people everywhere. She had gone along with it as the chances of Pansy getting her way seemed slim; she should have known who she was betting against.

The familiar uniform click of heels let her know that Pansy was arriving, though Hermione didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Pansy slammed a slip of parchment down onto the table top with a bang that radiated triumph.

“Told you I would get it,” she sing songed as she slipped into the neighbouring seat.

Hermione’s eyes widened at the signature she saw on the permission slip before she sighed in resignation. She was beginning to suspect that Headmistress McGonagall might have been passive-aggressively punishing her, however good Pansy was at lying she knew there were no flies on her former head of house. Hermione also knew that she had very much been given another opportunity to reveal the truth and she hadn't taken it; she doubted that would have gone over well with her favourite professor.

“Do I have to go?” Hermione tried as Pansy began hunting through jars for a trace of the only marmalade she found palatable. Hermione located the orange mush quickly and handed it over, hoping that in the face of her kindness Pansy would grant her clemency.

“Of course you do,” Pansy replied, eyeing the jar gleefully, “you know I can’t go on my own, and you’re perfectly placed to be my little Muggle Sherpa.”

“Lucky me,” Hermione replied sarcastically, but Pansy nodded.

“I should say so.”

The dark haired girl began clearing away Hermione’s strewn parchment so she could make a proper place setting for herself and Hermione resisted the urge to beg.

“Don’t look so glum, you’ll get wrinkles,” Pansy chastised. “This is the perfect time for a trip. We can look for things for the flat together; Merlin knows I will need to bring my own furniture-”

“I have furniture,” Hermione interrupted shortly, but Pansy carried on regardless.

“-and Luna’s been wanting to arrange a dinner for all of us with Rolf, we can do that afterwards.”

“What about Ginny?” Hermione asked, hoping to find any way of stalling the inevitable.

“What about her?” Pansy replied, pausing her smooth knife strokes.

“She has her sign up day for the Harpies; she’ll be gone all weekend.”

“Well,” Pansy shrugged, “it’s not like she’ll miss much. Rolf stayed here almost till the end of last term, and I don’t really understand why we need to have yet another meal with him, and I certainly don’t plan on consulting a Weasley on scatter cushions.”

* * *

Shopping in Muggle London turned out to be better and worse than Hermione had anticipated. It was just as crowded as she had feared, people seemed to multiply the closer they got to the larger department stores, but the discomfort was offset by Pansy being much more efficient at cutting through the meandering masses than Hermione was. That did mean that she was dragged almost everywhere, but it was better than constantly stopping, getting quietly infuriated as people walked four abreast looking up the whole time.

Unfortunately, speed of movement was the only upside to the day. Pansy’s thirst for furnishings showed no sign of diminishing as the hours dragged on, and Hermione had devolved to mutely trailing after her friend as they walked around John Lewis, selecting light fittings and rugs, only be too told they still had to go to bedding, which was apparent ‘the most important choice of the day’’.

“Do _we_ like this?” Pansy asked seriously as she held up a packet containing a white bedspread lined with delicate duck egg blue stitching.

“I feel like this is a test,” Hermione protested.

Pansy nodded. “That’s why they call you the brightest witch of the age, Hermione, _it is a test_.”

She waved the package in front of Hermione’s face and Hermione bit her lip, she legitimately had no idea what the answer was, which meant it was a fifty fifty gamble. So far that day she had tried to decide whether she had liked something and then said the opposite, but she had no opinion at all on the cloth Pansy was brandishing.

“We… do not?” she replied hesitantly.

“You’re failing,” Pansy huffed, putting the packet down and leafing through a board mounted catalogue.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I hate you for making this exam based.”

Pansy shrugged. “It's the only way to ensure your cooperation. Come on; I’ve just seen the sign for the Egyptian cotton.”

* * *

Against Pansy’s wishes, Luna _insisted_ on picking the restaurant and so after shopping Pansy and Hermione headed back to the Leaky Cauldron for a quick change and to drop off their bags. Hermione busied herself with charming several of the boxes to arrive back at her flat while Pansy faffed about with her lipstick. Luna had left them a key behind the bar for the room she had booked for later, somehow the Headmistresses belief that they were subject to laxer rules that year extended to Luna being granted permission to stay the night with her boyfriend. Rolf was departing the next day for a two-month trip beginning in Abyssinia, and Luna had said she wanted to be able to give him a _proper goodbye_ , Hermione had asked precisely zero follow up questions to that statement.

* * *

Hermione nearly burst out laughing when they walked inside the small restaurant Luna had picked, only Pansy’s mutinous look stopped her. Despite Valentine’s Day not being until the following week, the entire ceiling was covered in balloon hearts secured with vibrant pink streamers so long they almost touched the ground. A tinny sound system was blaring over the top power ballads and a waiter with enough oil in his hair to begin a small fish and chip shop was dramatically presenting roses to all of the ladies. It was probably the worst place ever to go on a romantic date, but for an evening with friends, it was perfect. _Dinner and a show_.

Hermione held Pansy back as the over-enthusiastic greeter began guiding them through the helium-inflated monstrosity. “We do not like,” she said in an amused whisper.

“I don’t know what you find funny, Granger,” Pansy said, rounding on her aggressively, “do you have any comprehension of how long I have been looking forward to a non-Hogwarts meal? Can you even imagine what a place like this serves for food?”

Hermione decided that the questions were rhetorical and waited for Pansy to flounce off before she grinned widely.

* * *

For all of Pansy’s complaints the menu was actually pretty good, Rolf and Luna were already in the restaurant, and the general pleasantries were exchanged before Rolf filled them in on what he had been up to since they had last seen him. Hermione felt warmth in her chest as the traveller's words were interrupted from time to time as he looked to Luna to involve her in what he was saying. The two seemed to revel in each other’s company, and Hermione was thrilled she came before an all too familiar topic of conversation reared its head again.

“So, Hermione,” Rolf began, grinning contentedly, “Luna tells me you have been re-establishing a relationship with an old acquaintance, one that dropped back into your life before Christmas? How is that going?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Pansy muttered.

“I…” Hermione began, reminding herself that Rolf was a good person, and had good intentions, and if nothing else it was rude to throw your crockery at people. “I don’t believe he will be around for much longer,” she said finally, “we’ve said all we had to say to each other.”

“That can’t be true,” Luna said, twirling a fork in her fingers absently, “have you spoke to him about, _why_ he… popped up?”

Hermione eyed Luna carefully across the table and shot a quick look at a bemused looking Rolf. “He knows,” she replied with a shrug.

“But does he _really_ ?” Luna continued, “Have you discussed your… _Compatibility_?”

Hermione bit her lip, irritated at being forced into the conversation and knowing that she couldn’t ignore it without looking monumentally bad-mannered. Luna wasn’t cruel - she knew that of course- what her friend was, was too clever for her own good. Hermione had been actively avoiding her questions for weeks, so Luna had clearly waited her out until she had a way of getting the answers she wanted.

“Well, no, we haven’t,” Hermione admitted. “But our first conversation on the subject didn't go so well, and the second was only marginally better, and that was mainly down to the bottle of Firewhisky we consumed between us. I think it’s best just to _leave it._ ”

She hoped her deliberate emphasis had closed the matter for now and as Luna coaxed Rolf into talking about his latest trip, Hermione sagged back into her chair and returned to watching the couple adore each other.

“Fuck me, there’s two of them,” Pansy whispered sometime later as Rolf began talking about the importance of ‘lifemates’ to any animal ecosystem. Hermione grabbed the arm of the waiter that was walking past, and the young man immediately paused to grin at her.

“Are you ready to order some-”

“-Wine,” Hermione said handing him the slim menu, “You pick, just make it red, wet and plentiful.”

* * *

Hermione gripped onto Pansy tightly as they walked towards the Leaky Cauldron; the weather was still cold, especially as it was now relatively late, and she was attempting to burrow into her friend's warmth. As they began to turn the second to last corner, Hermione cast a quick look behind herself to ensure Rolf and Luna were still following and immediately wished she hadn’t, her head snapped forward as her cheeks pinked.

“Are they still behind us?” Pansy asked, rubbing her fingers together.

“Yes, though whether they will remain so is anyone's guess,” Hermione huffed in reply.

“What do you mean?”

“I imagine it must be somewhat difficult to navigate forwards as a couple when you both have your eyes closed and one person has their head buried in the other’s neck,” Hermione whisper yelled, and Pansy laughed.

“Granger, I imagine that's the least freaky it's going to get tonight.”

“What?”

Pansy leered at her. “Oh come on! He knows all this weird stuff about creature mating rituals and Luna is surprisingly athletic when she puts her mind to it.”

Hermione covered her ears. “La la la la la la.”

Pansy only laughed harder. “How can you be so affected by this stuff? It’s just girl talk.”

“I’m not affected,” Hermione protested indignantly, and Pansy raised an eyebrow.

“Really? You saw a nuzzle, and you’re bright red.”

Hermione flushed even further, something she wouldn’t have thought possible a moment before. “Well, I don’t have much of… _that kind_ of experience okay, _nuzzling_ hasn’t come up before.”

“I think your non-nuzzle days are over; I’m sure your _hot soulmate_ will be more than happy to fill in any gaps in your _experience_.” Instead of blushing, this time, Pansy’s words forced all of the blood to rush out of Hermione’s face.

“Granger, Granger,” Pansy shook her, “I’m kidding. You’ve haven’t seen the boy in weeks; his first act is hardly going to be to jump you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she tried not to be too conscious of the fact she was pretty sure she was sweating. It wasn’t the thought of sex, or even men in general that made her uncomfortable, though she was deliberately avoiding thinking about the way the light hit Regulus Black’s cheekbones at that moment, her discomfort was less about the physical act and more about discussing it.

“Look, this kind of chat is new to me, I’ve never really had female friends, and well, I don’t really… I don’t have much to contribute to any discussion in that area, _understand_?”

Pansy looked at Hermione blankly for a moment before it seemed to click in her mind. “Oh, _oh_ , that’s what you meant. Why didn’t you just say so? If it makes you feel any better, I am too.”

“You?” Hermione replied loudly.

“Seriously,” Pansy said with a sharp glare, “I’m going to get offended if you don’t wipe that look off your face.”

Hermione tried hard to pull her face into a neutral expression. “I’m sorry, you just seem so in charge with all that kind of stuff. I mean look at me, the literal blushing virgin, and you are so in control, I just assumed-”

“Well, you assumed wrongly,” Pansy interjected but she didn’t look mad, she pressed her fingers under Hermione’s arm and subtly looked around the deserted street. “I’ve thought about it a few times, with a few different people but somehow it just never seemed right. When we were kids it was drilled into us that our value was hinged on our virtue, some of the ancient pureblood houses still insist on virgin brides.”

“Gross!”

“Yeah, it is, and I certainly don’t allow that kind of nonsense to govern my behaviour, at least not anymore, but something in all that talk...” Hermione’s look must have conveyed her unhappiness and Pansy shook her head,

“I don’t mean what they said was right, but the message underneath it all may have been, just not in the twisted way they presented it. My virtue does have a value, a value _to me_ ; it means I want to keep it until I feel ready, I don’t just want to give into urges for some passing fancy.”

“Makes sense,” Hermione agreed as they continued walking. She’d never thought anything similar before; there had never been the need.

“You never... Potter or Weasley?” Pansy asked, for once without the ever-present sneer she had when she mentioned the boys.

“Really?” Hermione protested dryly.

Pansy shrugged. “I don’t like either of them, in _any_ sense, but you do, and you’ve been friends for such a long time…”

“There my friends, never anything more,” Hermione replied honestly. “Though I did have a bit of a crush on Harry during the third year, it only lasted a few days. I remember thinking that he was growing up to be rather cute and then we had a huge fight over his broomstick and I quickly put those thoughts to bed. Don't tell Ginny,” she exclaimed suddenly imagining her friend’s fury.

“I’m afraid I can't promise that you see I love winding up the ginger….” Pansy trailed off looking at something in the distance. “Hang on a minute… Is that?”

Hermione followed her friend's gaze over to the other side of the road where Draco Malfoy was stumbling out of a Muggle pub, looking decidedly less put together than he usually did. Pansy swivelled on her heels so quickly Hermione was left gaping after her before her brain caught up and she followed.

Close up Draco looked in even worse shape, his eyes were hazy, and you couldn’t be within two steps of him without being hit by what felt like a wall of fumes. Hermione stood back as he and Pansy shared a brief exchange, from Pansy’s expression and short sentences it was clear that she had not opted for a ‘softly softly’ approach to the situation and Draco seemed uninterested in listening to whatever was being imparted.

When it looked as if Pansy was about to draw her wand, Hermione entered the fray and stood next to her friend, stooping to look at Draco who had bent himself over, bracing his hands above his knees. “It might be best if you come with us Malfoy,” she said softly.

“There she is, _the war hero_ , come to save the day again have you, Granger?”  

Years ago his voice would have been sharp as flint, and just as cutting, now he just sounded tired. Hermione tried her best to keep the pity off her face as he looked up at her. “No, nothing like that, come on Malfoy, we'll take you to the Leaky with us.”

* * *

Malfoy’s typical grace had deserted him that evening, and it took an awfully long time to walk the relatively short distance back to the pub. Pansy and Hermione placed him between them, each looping an arm through his. At some point, Rolf and Luna had caught up with them, and the adventurer had tried to take her place, but Malfoy had only held on tighter grumbling something unintelligible.

No more words were exchanged, had it been her friend Hermione would have been relentless in her questioning but Pansy didn’t seem inclined to press, and so Hermione took her cue from her. After all, it wasn’t as if people went undercover drinking in a place where no one would know who they were if they wanted to confront others and talk about their issues.

By the time Pansy released him to secure some floo powder, Malfoy was almost leaning his full weight on Hermione; he might have been relatively trim, but he was tall, and it wasn’t a load she would have been able to bear for long. Irritating as the end of the evening had been, Hermione was at least grateful that their unexpected blond distraction meant she didn’t have to do an awkward goodbye with Luna and Rolf before they headed upstairs to their room.

Draco coughed aggressively, and for a moment Hermione thought he was going to vomit before he suddenly pulled away from her and stood up a little straighter.

“Thank you for your assistance, Granger,” he said softly, and Hermione only nodded, she didn’t expect he would appreciate a further comment from her. He turned around to face them as he stepped through the floo and with a mock salute in Pansy’s direction he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Valentine’s day dawned at Hogwarts on what otherwise might have been a reasonably non-descript Thursday. In the past, Hermione had been miffed by the schools pandering to such a non-event holiday - each year decking out the castle in pointless, tasteless decorations. This year she found the bells and whistles didn’t bother her quite so much.

As she left her dorm room, Hermione discovered that the corridors had been filled with pink sheened bubbles that fluttered from the walls, leaving a glistening trail as the bounced and glided through the air, and she was almost charmed by them. That was until she realised that when you accidentally popped one the air shimmered for a moment before an explosion of love songs screeched in an impossibly loud tone that caught the attention of everyone in the immediate area. That, Hermione thought, was a little over the top, even with her more relaxed attitude.

After narrowly avoiding the rest of the floating threats Hermione made it into the Great Hall and took her usual seat, for once not being the first to arrive. Pansy was sat across the table from her, and her hair and makeup were applied perfectly despite the early hour. A simple breakfast was artfully laid on the table before her, but that was not holding her attention in the slightest. After exchanging greetings, Hermione settled on having some porridge and a cup of tea while Pansy made her way through the small stack of envelopes and parcels arranged neatly next to her side plate.

Pansy rarely had anything to say at breakfast; it would have been an understatement to say that she wasn’t a morning person, though this morning she broke her self-imposed silence to occasionally hold up something she had unwrapped so she could comment on its ‘ghastliness’. Hermione would have said that Pansy was difficult to please, but on this occasion, she couldn’t help but agree with her; even those with good taste seemed to go wayward on Valentines and Pansy’s gift pile was no exception. There was only so much glitter that should ever be used and after hearing ‘love’ rhymed with ‘fit like a glove’ Hermione begged not to be read any more amateur poetry.

As Pansy was nearing the end of her haul, her fingers grasped one of the larger envelopes still left on the table, and as soon as her hand connected with the heavy grey paper it vanished in a puff of white smoke, replaced - when the fog had dissipated - by a classic arrangement of white and soft pink flowers. The bouquet remained suspended in the air, twisting, presumably designed that way so that you could see every detail. Hermione’s spoon paused as she looked on at the beautiful roses, the petals looked so luscious and soft they almost begged to be touched.

“They’re tasteful,” she politely remarked as she rested her elbows on the table to take a sip from her teacup. Pansy beamed.

“Of course they are, they’re my present to me,” Pansy replied brightly, fingering the iridescent tulle bow that was tied around the ample stems.

Hermione rolled her eyes though she couldn’t fight off the smile that was pulling at her lips as Pansy conjured an expensive looking vase and began to arrange each bloom with careful precision. Inwardly Hermione laughed at Pansy’s natural use of magic; anyone that had seen her in Transfiguration would never have believed her capable of producing the delicate cut glass vase that had appeared in front of them, but Hermione knew better. Pansy could do whatever she wanted, as long as _she_ was the one who wanted it.

As Ginny and Luna joined them at the table, Pansy reached her last package. Luna slid in next to Hermione and topped up her tea as she poured her own. Ginny’s attention was all for the gifts on the table, and her gaze was caught as Pansy picked up the simple, slim, square box containing one heart-shaped confection, made of delicately sculptured dark chocolate.

“Oh,” Pansy remarked with some surprise, holding it up to Luna who had been trying to peer at the inside. “This is just lovely.”

Hermione smirked as Pansy turned the box over and the other girls crowded her to make out the note that was carefully written out on the back. Hermione didn’t lean in to look; she already knew what it said.

_Pansy,_   
_Happy Valentine’s Day_   
_I hope this convinces you that I have some degree of taste, enough, at least, that you will be reassured you won’t be living with a heathen.  
Hermione_

Pansy carefully placed the box down as she looked up. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

“I made it,” Hermione replied a touch smugly, she was pleased that she had finally managed to stun Pansy into relative silence, and if she was a bit smug in her defence she’d had to make the bloody thing six times before she got something that looked remotely like what she had in her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Pansy said quietly, and Hermione tilted her head, she hadn’t expected Pansy to take the gift quite so seriously.

“It’s just chocolate Pansy, nothing over the top. I hope you enjoy it,” she replied with a smile, and Pansy returned it.

“I will.”

The unexpectedly heavy moment was broken as Ginny began opening her own stack, and the girls whispered about the cards she had received from some well-meaning boys in the lower years, and laughed out loud over a suitably understated card from Harry, with a simple font that read: _‘Turns out I like you a lot more than originally planned’._

As the hall began to fill up, the girls chatted about hideous gifts and misunderstandings from Valentine’s Day’s past and after a lot of ribbing from Hermione, Ginny finally repeated the woeful poem she had written to Harry all those years before. The dramatic recital made Pansy laugh so hard her mascara ran, and even more remarkable was that when she noticed she didn’t seem to mind.

In direct contrast to Pansy and Hermione’s earlier feelings, Luna was overwhelmingly happy about the abundance of glitter on her own cards and gladly remarked on how much of it had fallen over her robes. When Ginny pointed out the notable absence that they had all been wondering about, Luna quietly admitted that Rolf had directed his owl to go straight to their room that morning. Under intense pressure, the kind of which only three women can apply, Luna eventually pulled the card out from inside her robes and in the movement a picture that had been pressed between the folded parchment fluttered to the table.

“Merlin… is that?’ Pansy began, as Hermione blinked. She hadn’t seen much, not from so quick a glimpse, but it was enough to realise that Rolf Scamander had more than earned his epithet ‘the fearless’.

Luna leant forward and swept up the image, far more leisurely than Hermione would have done in her shoes. “Told you he had a sword.”

Ginny barked out a laugh, before leaning back into Luna’s side. “Here, let me have a look at that again?”

Hermione’s own pile was not much of a pile at all, in fact, it was a single envelope made of simple, yet expensive parchment. When she opened it there was a letter, not a card inside, with the words ‘Thank you’ printed in the most elegant handwriting she had ever seen. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be, Hermione recognised the Malfoy seal on the back of the envelope; the emblem had been burnt into her mind during her time in the manor. The Malfoy’s had a carved replica of their distinguished crest above the fireplace in their receiving room, and her eyes had drifted to it more than once during her ill-fated stay.

Hermione placed the envelope back on the table, and her fingers trailed over the writing before she handed the parchment to a curious looking Pansy. One look was all Hermione needed to know that her friend had come to the same conclusion she had, Hermione may not have been as close to him as Pansy was, but she had been at school with Draco for years, she knew enough to say for sure that it was _not_ his handwriting.

* * *

Hermione was leaving her last lesson of the day when Kreacher made himself known, popping up from behind a tapestry and making Hermione’s heart stop. She chastised herself that she could still be startled after weeks of the elf’s unscheduled appearances, but it didn’t stop her breath catching in her throat as her hand raised to clutch her chest.

“Kreacher,” she panted, “you frightened me.”

Kreacher bowed so low that his nose was in danger of colliding with the floor. He looked as humbled as it was possible for him to with his wizened features. “Kreacher is sorry Miss,” he apologised, stepping forward to wrap a hand around her sleeve. “Please Miss, come with me.”

Hermione looked around the corridor and shrugged, it wasn’t like there was anywhere better for her to be at that moment, the last class of the day was a free session for her, and all the other girls would already be heading towards Hagrid’s hut for Care of Magical Creatures.

Kreacher began marching down the corridor and Hermione fought to keep up, he moved incredibly spritely given his stature and age. “Where are we going Kreacher?” she asked as she trailed along behind him.

“Headmistresses offices,” he replied, and Hermione felt a bead of anxiety trickle up her spine.

“Why are we going there?” she pressed, trying to sound casual and failing rather dramatically.

The little elf turned, his face transformed by his unfamiliar, broad grin. “Master Regulus has come.”

Hermione’s heart didn’t know whether to leap up into her throat or drop down into her shoes. But despite her emotional reaction she knew she didn’t have time to puzzle out how she felt at that moment, it was best not to keep those two waiting, especially just with each other. Hermione instantly sped up, walking quickly alongside the jubilant, scurrying elf.

* * *

Hermione sucked in a breath before she was given leave to enter the Headmistresses office, weirdly missing Kreacher’s presence. The elf had skipped off as soon as they had made it to the gargoyles, leaving Hermione trying to calculate whether she had now spent more time in the circular room this year than she had in all her others put together.

Professor McGonagall was behind the desk, wearing the by now familiar expression that told Hermione all she needed to know about her teacher, the headmistress was decidedly unhappy.

“Hermione,” she began, looking towards the door as she entered. “I am sorry to bother you during your _school day_ ; however, I have received a request for some of your time, and Mr Black informs me that it is quite urgent.”

“A matter of life and death I assure you, Headmistress,” a silky voice said from the other end of the office, and Hermione’s head snapped to where Regulus was standing, next to the roaring fireplace. His back was completely straight as he addressed his former professor, and his pose was commanding.

“With you, Regulus, it always is,” Professor McGonagall replied, though without the heat Hermione had anticipated and she was once again left to wonder what the animosity between them was, there was no love lost between the pair.

Hermione hovered, unsure if she should take a seat or even step forward, in case any movement was perceived as moving in a way that indicated her allegiance with either party. After a couple of beats of silence, McGonagall looked away from Regulus with a deep sigh and got to her feet.

“Mr Black has sought permission to take you from the grounds today,” she explained as she walked closer, stopping to lay a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “You need not go if you do not wish to.”

With that Professor McGonagall was gone, leaving Hermione and Regulus standing across from each other and Hermione trying to figure out his mood after once again being ambushed by his sudden appearance. The last time she had seen him, Regulus had been well on his way to completely intoxicated, not that the alcohol had made him behave much differently. There were more pauses in his speech, and his tone became melancholy, and unless she was very much mistaken Hermione had caught him looking at her a few times, though his expression had been unreadable.

Regulus cleared his throat drawing Hermione’s wandering attention back to him. “Hello again, Miss Granger, I apologise for disturbing your day.”

 _So, they were back to clipped formality?_ Hermione thought dispassionately. Well, if he was going to revert to type then so would she; one difficult, headstrong female, coming right up.

Hermione tilted her head. “Good afternoon, _Mr Black_ , so nice to see you again,” she said with forced politeness. “With such a large gap since your last appearance I had begun to think you might have slunk off back to your own time.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed, and Hermione allowed herself a point in her ongoing mental tally. “Thought or hoped?” he rejoined, and Hermione just stopped herself from laughing in time, though he must have caught on to some of her amusement as the tightness in his shoulders fractionally relaxed.

“Why are you here?” Hermione asked when it seemed as if Regulus would not offer the information.

He moved from his position against the wall and stalked towards her.

“I have a debt that I must unburden myself from.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Sirius and Regulus might have been as far apart in personality as two men could be, but they both shared a flair for wholly unnecessary dramatics.

“Why gee Sir Knight,” Hermione began sarcastically, “and why must I, one of such lowly birth, help you on such a quest?”

Regulus eyes flashed though his lips quirked as he dropped forward to meet Hermione’s eyes, “What is important in any quest, Miss Granger? You are in possession of the map.”

* * *

Against her better judgement, and the thinly veiled warning from her professor, Hermione agreed to go and not a moment later they exited the grand office through the swirling green flames Regulus conjured in the fireplace. He had told her where they were heading, but the name didn’t mean anything to Hermione. After requesting a brief stop in her flat, Regulus followed her keenly as she walked into the living room come library and rooted out her Dad’s old A-Z map collection. It was a good ten years out of date, but as it was unlikely that they had moved Manchester since then, it would be a good enough guide to enable Hermione to apparate them cleanly.

Regulus became more sombre as they arrived, even more so when she had to battle him onto a Muggle bus.

“We are here now, why can you not apparate us again?” he demanded as Hermione dropped the required coins onto the counter and pushed Regulus towards the back, ignoring the older ladies that tracked his movements with interest. Hermione supposed to them he looked like the men of their youth; even though he had dressed relatively simply by his usual standards, Regulus still carried an air about him that spoke of another time.

“Because,” Hermione hissed when she had pushed him into a seat. “I have never been here before. I could visualise enough to get us largely in the area, but not to be specific.”

Regulus crossed his arms and looked out of the window, leaving Hermione to consult the bus route map on the wall and to wonder how she would get through the day without strangling him.

* * *

It was an hour on a chilly bus before they reached a road of dilapidated looking houses, each more depressing than the last. Hermione walked behind Regulus, staring at the dirty net curtains held up against stained windows, and jumping each time she heard a distant siren. She didn’t say anything, Regulus appeared deep in concentration, but on closer inspection, Hermione realised he was counting the house numbers. They eventually stopped in front of a dark looking house with even fewer signs of life than any of those before.

“Where are we?” Hermione asked though she didn’t turn to face Regulus, her eyes were drawn to the thick brown dirt clogging the cracked glass windows and the litter thrown over the wild lawn.

“Spinner’s End,” Regulus replied gravely, and Hermione pivoted on her heel staring as Regulus stepped onto the ill-kept crazy paving path, gracefully zigzagging around the more significant bits of rubbish that had been thrown over the rotting fence. He pushed his hands into his pockets as his head tipped back, and his eyes searched the building as if he was looking for a particular brick.

Hermione turned away from his blank expression and assessed the house which seemed to have captivated him so entirely. Her mind searched for a reference to their location, but she came up with nothing.

“Which is?” she pressed eventually, and though Regulus didn’t reply she fought her initial instinct to stomp her foot or chastise him. There was a tension to him, a stillness, which made him seem more dangerous than ever.  

Regulus’ hands came out of his pocket, and one reached higher into his robes, drawing out his wand. Not paying any attention to the voice of her inner sense of self-preservation, Hermione didn’t watch the weapon that was now in his grasp. Instead, her attention was drawn to his other hand, the one hanging by his thigh, the one twisted so tightly into a fist it looked as if he could be cutting off the blood supply to his fingers.

“This,” Regulus said finally, twirling his wand as he indicated the crumbling house in front of them, “is where Severus Snape grew up.”

He didn’t offer anymore, and Hermione’s mind raced with a thousand questions she didn’t dare voice. She had known Severus was important, at least in some way, to Regulus, after all, one of his first acts following his return was to watch the fallen man’s memories.

Regulus’ rotated his wrist idly as Hermione continued to watch him, _stare really_ ; she had never known her professor as a boy, but even so, the pair seemed such unlikely friends. When she thought back to Severus’ memories she knew Regulus had appeared in a few of the scenes, though he couldn’t have been called ‘present’ his appearance was far too infrequent, the impressions of him too vague. Snippets of conversations where the two young boys had conversed much as Slytherins did, but it was more than her former professor had seemed to have with anyone else.

“How good are you at privacy charms?”

The question startled Hermione out of her recollections, as did the gentleness in Regulus’ tone, for once he seemed to be asking, not demanding something of her. Sadly, his simple question, like so many now, hit something of a raw nerve within her.

“Better than I should be,” she replied crisply.

Regulus looked at her, and his feet came unstuck from the spot where he had been rigid for at least ten minutes.

“Could you?” he asked, pointing to the fence and Hermione shrugged withdrawing her wand. She might not have known what he was going to do, but she had a degree of certainty that if he had requested privacy, it was something that Muggles shouldn’t see.

She turned away from him, regarding the overgrown perimeter; maybe one day a man would want to take her for ice-cream rather than secret missions.

“I take it you need more than just a simple repelling charm?” she asked as she shedded her robe.

“That would be best,” Regulus replied, and she nodded.

Hermione walked around the property layering magic, swallowing the bile that rose as she raised her hand and weaved the all too familiar pattern. She focused on the sound of her steps to shut out the ghosts of Ron’s splinching screams and the memory of her back, pressed against a frozen tree stump as she took her turn for the watch, wondering how long it would be before they starved to death.

When she turned around Regulus was looking at her, and she moved further towards him, silently indicating that she was done. He held her gaze for a moment, and his mouth opened with an almost pained expression. Hermione was confident he was going to say something, then suddenly he shook his head and turned away again.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself as she stooped to pick up her discarded robe, and then, entirely without ceremony, Regulus waved his hand, and with a single wordless motion the entire building collapsed in on itself, levelling to the ground with little more than a creak.

Hermione’s eyes widened as she stiffened. She waited for Regulus to turn around, smirk at her and invite her praise, it was a rather impressive piece of magic after all. None of that happened. After a slight pause, Regulus took a step forward, bending to look at the remains as if checking it had happened.

Hermione inched closer, her head darting between the silent man and the now quiet house as she tried to make head or tail of what had happened, and why it had happened. Then something caught her eye, a flicker in the distance that had her instantly stretching for a crumpled photograph that was fluttering in the breeze, wedged between two bricks. She nearly had it within her grasp when a hand landed on her shoulder, and Regulus pulled her back so quickly she almost toppled.

“Come on, we need to get you back,” he commanded, stepping back down the cracked path and out onto the street.

Hermione looked at him stunned. “But, Regulus we need to-”

“Not now, Miss Granger,” he said through gritted teeth, and Hermione’s was aghast.

“Yes now!” she demanded. “There’s a photograph there. We can’t just leave it.”

“We can, and that is exactly what we are doing.”

Regulus walked away from her, marching up the street and away from the destroyed house without a single look back, and Hermione hurried after him just like she had a Grimmauld Place all those weeks before, only this time there was no suddenly appearing cousin to interrupt her ire.

“Can you really be so heartless?” she called after him as she glared at his back. “Don’t you want _anything_ to remember him by?” she protested, but Regulus carried on as if he couldn’t even hear here her. “Some friend you are,” she shouted and she instantly knew she had gone too far when Regulus abruptly stopped, turning towards her and gripping her upper arm tightly, his eyes like slits.

“You know nothing about me, or this, do you understand?” he all but hissed and Hermione bit the inside of her cheek before wrenching her arm out his grasp.

“Fine, have it your way, _as usual_ ,” she spat, “this way to an apparition point I think,” she said and twisted to cancel the charms she had laid before storming off ahead of him.

* * *

It took a while for Regulus to catch her up though Hermione suspected that was because he wasn’t trying. While she was surprisingly quick for her stature, she did not doubt that if he had _wanted_ to overtake her, he could have done so easily. When they finally stopped in the alley Hermione had spied on their way to the house, they eyed each other warily. Eventually, Regulus raised his hand, and Hermione took it, a little ungraciously, and a second later she felt the unwelcomely familiar tug behind her navel and then they were in the bustle of Hogsmeade.

Somehow back in the small wizarding village, Hermione felt even more aware of the difference in their dress; Regulus was turned out in presumably the most excellent robes wizard galleons could buy, she was in an ill-fitting, years old, school uniform. They were similar in age she knew - current timeline notwithstanding - and yet they seemed poles apart.

Hermione turned her head towards the path leading back to Hogwarts and contemplated the long walk that was ahead of her. There were no carriages today, not on a standard Thursday, typically such a thing might have had her irritated, but today it felt like a blessing, it would give her time to sort her head out before she had to go back to her dormitory, and what would no doubt be endless questions. No one could keep a secret at Hogwarts for long, especially not a frivolous one, by now everyone would know Regulus had been there, and on Valentine’s day no less. Hermione wondered if he even knew what the day was when he had asked her to come with him to tear down his old friend’s family home.

“Well, I,” she began, pulling her cloak a little closer around her, “I suppose I should-”

Regulus shifted his feet. “Miss Granger, may I impose on you a little longer?”

“More houses to be levelled?” she asked carelessly, and Regulus managed an almost smile.

“No, not today at least. Could you be persuaded to come for a quick drink? We have been out in the cold for hours, and I should see that you are warmed up before allowing you to go.”

Hermione’s sensibilities didn’t know whether to jump on the way his voice had deepened at the mention of ‘warming’ her, or that he would need to ‘allow’ her anything, in the end, she voiced neither, she merely raised her arm in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

“Lead the way, Mr Black.”

* * *

Hermione regarded Regulus as he stood at the bar and she tried to discern if what Harry had said was right; _was Regulus like Mr Darcy?_ He certainly spoke like him, jumped up pureblood that he was, and she could certainly imagine him standing in silent judgment of everyone else in the room at a party, probably flanked by boys like Draco and Theodore Nott. She fancied he would hate every dress she would ever pick out for a formal occasion or otherwise, and he, like Pansy had that morning, would love to use the word ‘ghastly’ to describe the taste of some other, less fortunately bred person, like herself.

No, Hermione decided, he wasn’t Darcy, he was no rough around the edges hero waiting to be reformed, but he wasn’t the villain either, _maybe one of the henchmen?_ One that had a little more to him than just ‘silencing’ people and delivering threats. The one that would possibly get a speaking part in a film. The shoe should fit, Hermione realised, as that was what Regulus was, or what he had been, in his own time.

Served quickly, Regulus took a seat opposite her, seemingly without noticing the interest he seemed to be attracting. Hermione knew not everyone knew Regulus was back yet; there may have been a few older people in the crowd that would have thought the exceedingly attractive man in front of her ‘looked a great deal like Regulus Black’ but not many that would have believed he was the man in question. Most, Hermione reasoned, were looking at his cheekbones.

After a few polite inquiries, Regulus seemed happy to sit in silence, a state that set Hermione’s teeth on edge. She wasn’t comfortable around him, and she racked her brain for what to say, in the end, she supposed she might as well get some answers about their magical mystery tour, after all, she had no idea when she might see him again.

“Why did you need me for this? Today I mean,” she began, “I’m sure you could have found it for yourself.”

Regulus tipped forward on his seat as he averted his eyes. “I couldn’t have located the place that quickly, and at the moment it is best for me not to be out and about for too long, not until all of my paperwork is properly registered at the Ministry.”

Hermione nodded as she played with the label on her bottle, and Regulus’ eyes followed her fingers. “The task I had,” he continued, “it needed to be completed with the utmost discretion, and I believe that I can…. Trust you, not to say anything.”

“Careful, Mr Black, that was very nearly a compliment,” Hermione replied though her attempt at humour was more to mask her own rising emotion, she hadn’t expected him to say that he trusted her in any capacity.

“Another?” Regulus asked politely, and Hermione shook her head, she hadn’t eaten enough to risk it, and she had no doubt there would be a teacher at the gate when she returned, wobbling up the drive was unlikely to end well.

Regulus went back to the bar, this time coming back with a smaller glass, filled with a stronger looking liquid that he agitated between his fingers for a while before he seemed resolved. “He asked me to do that, the night he was marked.”

“Snape?” Hermione replied, and Regulus nodded. “You were good friends?” she asked, and both ignored her earlier accusation.

“Since school,” he replied thoughtfully. “Though _why_ we were, I couldn’t tell you. Severus was surly, rude and entirely bent on pushing people away.”

“And you, I suppose, were a paragon of good characteristics?” Hermione said with an eyebrow raised, and Regulus shot her a withering glance.

“Hardly, which I am sure you have no trouble imagining.”

“And yet you pressed for a friendship?”

“Not exactly, we had a kinship, similar… feelings,” Regulus admitted though Hermione noticed a slight wince, she estimated it wouldn’t be long before the topic was closed.

“Political leanings?” she enquired.

“Well, yes, eventually, but in the beginning, it was something far more tragic,” Regulus replied with a hollow laugh raising his glass to drain the contents in one gulp. “Difficult home lives and trouble being anywhere near a certain bunch of students who seemed to make it their business to be all over the school at once.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she mirrored his actions from the evening at her house, and pushed his drink closer to him.

“In any case by the time we were marked there was a trust there, of a kind, not enough as it turns out,” he continued bitterly. “I take some solace that he gave me such a task, though I never thought I would have to do it.”

The unspoken thought that he didn’t think he would be to there to, lingered between them.

“Did you ask him for something in return?” Hermione asked, wondering what the Black heir would have wished carried out for him after death.

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head as he eyed Hermione curiously. “Did you… before the war, did you ask Potter to do anything for you?”

Hermione gripped the neck of her spent bottle. “I cleaned up after myself.”

* * *

Once night had begun to fall, Hermione and Regulus left the Three Broomsticks and padded down the main street a distance apart as the dense shops started to trail away.

“So,” Regulus started after a time. “I understand that you came across Draco in London a few nights ago?”

“Yes, I did,” Hermione replied, hunting into her deep pockets for her balled up gloves.

Regulus’ hands fisted. “He was somewhat _vague_ on the details.”

Hermione thought back to Draco as they had found him, far too drunk and stumbling like a newborn foal. “I should imagine he was.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened, jutting out his already defined cheekbones.

“What?” Hermione asked, noting his increasing agitation but Regulus shook his head.

“It’s nothing, Miss Granger.”

As they reached the end of the village proper, Regulus came to a stop, forcing Hermione to do the same. He fiddled with a button on the front of his robe for a moment before he looked at her, his gaze piercing.

“I wonder if I could impose upon you, another favour, could you perhaps let _him_ know that it is done?”

Hermione looked at Regulus blankly. “I’m not sure I…” then suddenly, understanding dawned, “his portrait?” she asked, and Regulus nodded. Hermione wondered if it was the question that made him seem vulnerable, or whether it was because he was asking it of _her_. “I can do that,” she replied.

Regulus smiled. “I am truly grateful.”

A chill moved through them, and Hermione was even more aware of how dark it was, she looked away from the imposing man in front of her to glance at her watch, Regulus’ shadow fell over her wrist, and his sharp face was illuminated ghoulishly by the cheap green backlight.

“Do you need to be back for-” Regulus began tightly, waving his arm back towards the heavily decorated village, “all the St Valentine’s nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Hermione inquired biting her lip and wanting to laugh at how disdainful he looked; she really did need to learn to master some of these facial expressions.

Regulus snorted. “I do not believe that people should have to wait for a _specific_ day to be romantic, neither do I believe that true romance is iconicized by cheap plastic hearts and glitter, the very idea that you would send such a thing to a loved one is abominably absurd.”

Hermione smiled. “But isn’t Valentines supposed to be about emerging love, announcing intentions and all those kinds of things?”

Regulus shifted before he stepped forward and gripped her wrist, so, so, gently, twisting it to enable him to copy her earlier motion and illuminate the time.

“It’s nearly dinner time,” he stated letting her arm fall and further encroaching into her space. “Do you need to get back for-”

“Yes,” Hermione interjected nervously, ill at ease with his proximity and the sudden emergence of butterflies in her tummy.

“I see,” Regulus said stiffly, taking a step back. “So there is someone who you are-”

“For curfew,” Hermione blurted, not sure why she wanted to knock him off his current train of thought, even if it were true. She was sure Ginny and Pansy would tell her it would do Regulus some good to think that there was someone else, but she was no liar, she would have crumbled if he had asked even the most straightforward of follow-up questions.

“Of course,” he replied with a slight smile, “I should take you back.”

His apparent new found ease irritated her and Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “I can walk,” she protested, and at her clipped tone, Regulus’ face hardened.

“I’m perfectly aware of what you can do, Miss Granger, however, it is my _duty_ to escort you back, and I take such things seriously.”

Hermione waved a hand between them lazily. “That antiquated pureblood stuff doesn’t apply to me,” she said dismissively, and a moment later Regulus had stepped forward again, invading her personal space.

“ _I_ apply to you.”

* * *

Hermione stood in the slight hallway outside the head’s office for the second time that day, once again fighting down trepidation, even though this time she knew the headmistress wasn’t on the other side. She had managed to catch Professor McGonagall at the end of dinner and relay her request, her former head of house had given her a penetrating stare for a moment before agreeing, and now she was here.

Hermione had barely been able to eat anything, too preoccupied with the events of the day and Regulus’ determination to walk her back to the castle. She put her friends off with a few words and when Ginny made to protest Pansy cut her off before eyeing Hermione with a touch of concern. Far from feeling nervous about revealing information, Hermione was looking forward to sharing her news and asking for advice; she certainly had no idea what to make of it all on her own. But not right now, now she had to do what she had been asked before she could think about it long enough to put herself off.

Hermione walked into the empty room and moved to the back wall towards the portraits realising that in all the times she had been there since the war she had never once looked for Professor Snape. Hermione usually didn’t look up at all if she could help it, the layers of pictures gave her the feeling of being back in the ministry courtroom, rows of faces above her, sat in not so silent judgement.

It didn’t take Hermione long to find his frame; she wondered what it said about the new headmistress that Snape’s picture was only just above eye level, not far from the desk. In stark contrast to most of the images secured to the walls, Professor Snape’s frame was a slim, embossed wood that had been stained with a dark kind of lacquer.

Hermione had expected him to avoid her when she came towards him, or maybe even leave his frame. He did neither. He sat ramrod straight as he regarded her with a look that she remembered from having her cauldron assessed at the end of a double period. He looked younger than he had since the last time she had seen him, the circles from around his eyes had gone though, he was as pale as ever.

“Sir,” she began quietly.

“Miss Granger,” her former professor replied after a beat and the drawl was so familiar Hermione felt tears prick at the back of her eyes, though she didn’t dare let a single drop fall. Hermione may not have known her teacher half as well as she had once thought, but she knew enough to say with some certainty that crying would be the end of any conversation.

She fidgeted with the edge of her robes. “I am sure you know by now that Regulus Black has returned Sir.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “As the discussion around that occurred in this very office I could hardly have been in ignorance.”

Hermione faltered. “Well, of course, that was silly of me-”

“Miss Granger,” Snape interjected tiredly, “please do get on with it.”

Hermione sucked in a breath and dared to meet his eyes. “Regulus wanted me to tell you that he has fulfilled his promise.”

There was silence for a moment, and Hermione thought it best not to acknowledge the day further, not to let him know _she_ had seen his childhood home, she didn’t imagine he would look upon that favourably. Like when she had first seen the memories he left behind, another piece of the man Severus Snape was had slid into place today, Hermione didn’t like the picture that was being formed.

“Tell him,” Snape began in a much quieter voice, “tell him, thank you.”

Hermione nodded taking a slight step back opening her mouth again, but before she could speak another face caught her attention this one with bushy grey eyebrows raised in challenge. _Phineas Nigellus Black._

“You’ve done what you came for girly, be off with you,” he dismissed, and Hermione bristled.

“Of course, _Mr Black_ , I wouldn’t want to interrupt your drinking time,” she retorted primly before swivelling on her heel and heading for the door.

With her back turned Hermione missed the involuntary smile that tugged at the old wizard’s lips.


	8. Chapter 8

_Regulus was crouched in the garden, staring straight ahead and trying to ignore how much his legs were hurting in the stupid position he had tucked himself into. He was hiding behind one of the ridiculous terracotta planters his mother had lined the formal gardens with, as he shook himself for being so silly. He ran one of his small hands over the giant orange orb and scowled at it; he and Sirius had often talked about how much they hated the lumbering giants._

_The planters were delicate - despite their size - and the brothers were warned, repeatedly, by their austere mother that if anything were ever to happen to one of them, the consequences would be severe. The threat, and their firm belief in the truth of it, ultimately scuppered their plans for Quidditch on the lawn the year they were purchased, and every each one since. Regulus could concede that the great masses of terracotta did make excellent hiding places, Sirius had taught him that, Sirius had taught him everything, and now he was going._

_Regulus ran a hand through his too neat hair that would never tussle like be wanted it to - like his brother’s - and rubbed the back of his sleeve roughly over his damp eyes. His legs quaked again, and he gave up, allowing himself to slump to the floor and press his face against his forearm. He could never be brave, not like Sirius._

_They had been at the breakfast table that morning, listening to their father as he read excerpts from the papers; Regulus sitting up straight, perched on the very edge of his too big seat, and Sirius artfully sagged back in his chair as they whispered their plans for the day under their breath. Regulus tried to remain attentive to both men lest he give Sirius away and then it had arrived; Sirius’ Hogwarts letter._

_The thickly stuffed envelope that fell onto the table was wholly expected - his brother was of age after all - however, in an instant, the atmosphere in the grand room shifted entirely. Sirius was instantly transferred to somewhere beyond jubilant, judging by the look on his face, his brother had been smiling more broadly than Regulus could ever remember having seen before. At the same time, their mother’s face had hardened, and she had snatched the letter away as soon as possible so she could begin lecturing on what was expected when Sirius attended school._

_Regulus had pushed his plate away, no longer hungry, and escaped from the table as soon as he could. He had lingered by a patch of the more dangerous blooms in his mother’s greenhouse for a while, but as the raised voices in the kitchen drifted over to him, he had shuddered and moved further away._

_Regulus pressed his back against the planter, ignoring the spiky leaves that irritated the back of his neck. It was silly for him to be upset, Black’s did not snivel he told himself harshly, but the chastisement didn’t stop the water trickling out of his eyes. There was nothing to be done, his brother had to go to school, and he was too young to attend._

_To his eternal shame when Regulus heard heavy feet approaching his hiding place, he couldn’t straighten himself up in time to hide his sorrow, and a moment later the growing light that had been attacking his eyes was blocked out as he stood in his brother’s shadow._

_“What’s wrong, Reggie?” Sirius asked softly, and Regulus sniffed._

_“Nothing,” he responded, his one word was almost too quiet and too waterlogged to be heard._

_Sirius dropped down next to him on the slowly heating tiles and ruffled Regulus’ hair. “You don’t need to worry, Reggie, so I’ll be at school. It won’t change anything, not really, I’ll be gone for a few weeks, and then I’ll be back for Christmas, you’ll see,” Sirius reassured, but Regulus remained sombre._

_“What if you make new friends and you want to spend the holidays with them?” he asked._

_Sirius folded his legs under himself as he playfully punched Regulus in the arm. “People I’d rather spend time with than you? Not possible!”_

_In spite of himself, Regulus grinned an expression his brother returned easily. “Anyway,” Sirius continued cheerfully, “we’ve got plans this year right? Finally going to build that sledge.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Sure.”_

_-/-/-/-_

Regulus woke with a start, desperately reaching in the direction of his nightstand to grab the glass of water he had placed there, gulping down the liquid loudly to sooth the dryness of his throat. As soon as the glass was drained, he threw his head back onto the plush silk pillows and squeezed his eyes shut, though he had no idea if he was trying to hold onto the lingering trails of the dream or banish it away.

Regulus had heard so much about Sirius since he came back, and all the accounts wove together to depict the remainder of his brother’s life into an unbelievably grim tapestry. The events that had unfolded after he had gone to retrieve the locket seemed so fantastical they were almost unbelievable. That was never how he had imagined Sirius’ life to be.

Everything about his brother’s personality had been speed; Sirius was quick-tempered, quick-witted, quick at making friends, quick with his wand. From all Regulus had heard it appeared that for so long Sirius’ entire existence was _forcibly_ ground to a halt. Regulus’ fists clenched into the soft silk of the bedding and felt the now familiar despair of anger that had no outlet. These events had already past. He supposed those responsible had paid for their crimes, most of them in any case.

Regulus had never liked Pettigrew; he had been jealous of him - not that he would ever have admitted that - envious of all of the boys that had made it into his brother’s so-called gang. He’d had no idea that the most unlikely one among them had been working for the Dark Lord, though h _e had no idea what he would have done if that information had presented itself at a more convenient time,_ his time. Regulus wanted to believe that he would have sought out Sirius, would have told him everything, the more rational part of his whispered that even if he had tried, and had abandoned all divisions and shown up on his brother’s doorstep, Sirius wouldn’t have believed him.

Regulus summoned more water and curled himself further into the bed, for the first time since he had been pulled into the future he wasn’t eager to face the day. He had known this would come, the melancholy, when he had been told everything he had felt it, mourned for his brother, grieved for all of them that had been lost, but none of it had seemed truly real, not until he had heard Hermione talk about Sirius that night in her flat.

Regulus had turned up out of the blue and _demanded_ the truth like he had any right to ask her for anything, and yet she had given it to him, about everything, and everyone. Regulus had watched her expressive face as she gave her version of events, her looks giving as much colour to her words as her ever-changing tone did. Hermione hadn’t put his brother on a pedestal like Potter did, or regarded him as a wayward, pitiable stray like Narcissa. To Hermione, Sirius had been _human_ , a mix of good and bad parts, someone that was at times both a victim of circumstance and the engineer of his own misfortune.

Regulus hadn’t been able to help himself from chipping in with a few of his own stories each time she made an educated guess as to where some of Sirius’ more _pronounced_ character traits had come from. Through the course of the evening - and the best part of a bottle of whisky - he had told her more than he had ever told anyone about his brother, at least the version that he had known, which wasn’t much at all.

And now, he was dreaming about him again.

Regulus turned his head into the pillows and resigned himself to the unlikelihood of falling back to sleep, peace wouldn’t come for him now, not with all of the thoughts and memories he had swirling around his mind. He dragged himself away from thoughts of Sirius only to move as far as thoughts of Hermione; it was no use. Apparently, he was determined to be haunted by one of them that day.

Regulus rubbed a hand harshly over his face as he remembered Hermione’s pinched expression as she had stood in the breeze layering complex charm after charm around the crumbling property he had taken her too, again demanding her presence. He had been so angry when they had arrived that he’d had to hold himself as still as possible, so he didn’t level the entire street in a fit of rage. Regulus had never been there before, _Spinner’s End_ , though he had heard enough about it, in Severus’ succinct way.

Growing up Regulus had seen children called out and humiliated for being poor. He, having come from a house where he wanted for nothing but love had understood that not everyone had come from such ample riches, but he had never faced the reality of such stark poverty until he was stood in the waste lined front garden of his fallen friend’s childhood home. The only thing that had stopped him from giving into the growing tempest inside was the other desire of his heart, to throw himself to his knees. Bile had risen in his throat as his mind filled in the environmental backdrop to some of the worst parts of Severus’ life, a morbid tale that had never needed a more precise staging.

And the quiet girl had stood beside him, pulling him away from the cliff edge yet again.

When Hermione had finally broken through the red mist that was lingering in his mind, Regulus had realised he was far too emotional to cast the necessary spells himself and had asked her to do it for him. Mercifully, miraculously, Hermione had accepted, though when he heard her soft gasp Regulus had torn his face away from the decaying home to see her bottom lip caught sharply against her teeth as her eyes glassed over. It caused her pain, and she did it anyway.

Regulus released a low groan as light - far too bright and cheerful for his mood - licked at the edges of the velvet-covered windows, and he flicked his wand in response so that the curtains pinned out _all_ of the invading day.

‘Thank you’ that was what he was going to say to her when she turned back around and indicated she was done. Then when she did the words had stuck in his throat, he didn’t know what he was saying it for, layering the charm, showing him the way, being with him, bringing him back from the dead. _All the above? None?_ Regulus didn’t know anymore.

Regulus knew that he had been affected by Hermione’s anger, more than he cared to admit. When she had railed at him for leaving the photo behind he had been torn between hexing her and pinning her against the nearest wall. Hermione’s eyes had flashed with rage as she had questioned his dedication to his friendships and he had returned that emotion just as forcefully. Little did she know that Severus had made him swear he would keep nothing, little did she know how much he had wanted to. Regulus had wanted to tear that place apart brick by brick, exacting revenge in some small way on people long dead; he wanted to pull the home away from its seams and remove any trace of Severus that remained, his memory didn’t belong in that decaying pile. But he had promised.

A small voice in his mind - or maybe his heart - had whispered that he should have told Hermione the full details of the task that had been laid at his feet, the rest of him was too proud to allow himself to explain.

Reluctantly, Regulus tore the clammy sheets away from his body and padded into the shower, hoping to pull his usually impassive mask into place as he washed and dressed.

Though his brow fell and his expression smoothed his thoughts remained wayward as he scrubbed mechanically. He had been staying away from Hermione, deliberately, since he had ordered entry into her home. Regulus had woken up the next day with a fuzzy head, a piercing soreness behind his eyes and an even more fierce awareness that he had let the girl in, had let her see a bit of the _real_ him. The giving of such liberties was madness in general, but after such a short acquaintance even more so. Trust did not come easily to Regulus, the fact that he seemed to feel some for Hermione so quickly unnerved him. So he had told himself that he had things to do, more significant obligations on this time. But he knew it wasn’t the real reason for his prolonged absence.

Kreacher had been decidedly unimpressed. Regulus had summoned his elf to an emotional reunion weeks before, once he had settled at the manor, and Kreacher had been overcome with joy at first sight of his ‘Young Master’. Regulus had been surprised when Kreacher had announced his intention to remain at Hogwarts, his elf’s reasoning that he did not _belong_ at the Malfoy estate and would return when his Master was rightly ensconced in a Black family holding, had rung somewhat hollow, but Regulus hadn’t questioned him, Kreacher had earned his forbearance. Regulus summoned him often in those first weeks, the familiarity of their friendship being one the first real comforts he had in the future that was until the elf began - what eventually became - an almost constant stream of ‘updates from the castle’.

At first, the elf’s observations had been on general topics; answers to questions that Regulus had posed about people he had known in his own time, but Kreacher began to go more and more off-piste. He would pop up at all hours of the day with some imagined task or errand that always ended with him imparting some news that invariably had Miss Granger at the centre of it. Kreacher managed to tell him how she was faring, what classes she was taking, how she was very diligent in her studies, until one day the elf appeared with a crack as loud as thunder landing so jubilantly he almost fell over himself as he told Regulus she had requested he bring her a cup of tea, and how she was ‘such a polite young Miss’.

Regulus had become irritated by the updates; they felt contrary to his wish not to see her, like he was somehow cheating.  Exasperated, he had waved Kreacher off and told him he wasn’t interested in titbits from Hermione’s life or who she spoke to, or what her opinion on shortbread was that was until Kreacher had the unbelievable temerity to do precisely what Regulus had asked, and so he stopped talking about Hermione entirely.

Regulus aggressively lathered up his hair; his frustration with himself was making him careless. He stood back under the pelting spray of the water and tilted his head back wondering if he would be able to shut off his thoughts now that he had given in and seen her again.

Weeks had passed, and Regulus had begun making plans for his new life, the one Hermione had accidentally gifted him. Kreacher continued to visit, helping him with paperwork and Ministry regulations, and the elf never mentioned her. Regulus wasn’t sure when he realised that he was more irritated by the absence of news than he had previously been about its constancy. He wanted to know what she was doing, how she was handling the world around her. Hermione was bright, sarcastic and almost unintentionally funny with her blunt view of the world, and despite her over impassioned nature and general prickliness, there was an inherent warmth that permeated her every spoken thought and look. Compassion seemed to leak out of her very pores and envelope anyone that was near her; Regulus could admit that it had wrapped around him, he could also acknowledge that the thought of anyone else being swept up in it made him furious.

Despite the elf’s best efforts, it wasn’t Kreacher who eventually pushed Regulus over the edge, inadvertently, it was Draco. Regulus had seen little of his ‘young’ cousin since arriving in at the manor, Draco it seemed was not taking to life at peacetime as well as he could have been. Regulus could hardly blame him, except, for how his deterioration affected Narcissa.

Regulus had been stumbling around the manor one morning, reviewing the most boring form he had ever been given in his short life when he had heard Narcissa’s unusually heated tones coming from a close by sitting room. Regulus had stepped towards the open door, and there they had both been, a bedraggled looking Draco, slumped into a grand chair with his mother looming over him.

_“Mother,” Draco had said placatingly with a hand shielded over his brow._

_“Don’t you dare ‘Mother’ me Draco Malfoy,” Narcissa snapped before she looked down at her son with a sigh. Regulus shifted in the doorway, and she turned, spotting him instantly._

_“You talk to him,” she demanded and stormed out of the room in a flurry of fury and silk. Knowing better than to disobey a direct order, Regulus dropped himself into the chair in front of Draco and raised a single eyebrow at his ashen appearance._

_“I may have indulged more than was wise last evening,” Draco revealed, unnecessarily, as he picked up a glass of water to nurse between his hands._

_“How much more?” Regulus prodded, though he could have probably guessed, he could smell the faint mix of stale booze and sweat from where he was sitting._

_“I don’t rightly know,” Draco sighed out, and Regulus shook his head._

_“How did you get home?”_

_“Granger,” he revealed, with a slightly bemused smile. “Came across her and Pansy and they dragged me into their ragtag rabble. I expected her to have a go, start yelling at me for being stupid pureblood, unable to navigate the world without an escort, but she was weirdly… gentle I suppose.”_

_Regulus’ hands bit into the wooden arms of the chair._

The next day Regulus had gone to the room Narcissa had turned over to him to use as a study and stared at the mass of parchment without interest. He had been in there less than half an hour before he had resolved to visit Spinner’s End, and had decided he needed Hermione’s assistance, two birds and all that he had told himself. Black’s didn’t need a reason to do what they did.

Regulus dried himself from the shower and dressed in one of the new sets of robes that Narcissa had purchased for him. Her choices were a bit showy for his taste, but he couldn’t argue against the tailoring, he did, however, wish she hadn’t gone for quite so much black.

As he left the room Regulus considered that he should really show his face at breakfast, having been out of the manor for so much of the previous day, however, he had a task to complete first.

* * *

Regulus sauntered down an as yet unexplored corridor in the outer reaches of Malfoy Manor in search of the portrait gallery. Not the main one, of course; The Malfoy’s were excessively proud of their lineage, even by pureblood standards, and their typically grand and opulent main portrait gallery was located almost at the very centre of their palatial home. The one Regulus was searching out that morning was Narcissa’s own, a gift from her adoring husband after their marriage and no doubt Lucius’ attempt to appease his father in law, showing that he understood just how privileged he had been to fall in love with a girl from the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

When Regulus reached the right corridor a small smile pulled at his mouth, in this unique location, there was no trace of the silver and gold filigree that bedecked every other inch of the manor. This gallery was much more gothic. Black, creeping chandeliers draped from the ceiling, the walls were lined with a paper that almost begged the occupant to reach out and touch, and the carpet had a pile so thick that walking on it felt like moving across sun-baked sand. One wouldn’t have needed to read the sign on the entrance door to identify whos ancestors graced the walls.

Regulus walked along the lines of faces impassively until he found the one he wanted. Phineas was resting against his frame looking decidedly bored until Regulus came to a stop in front of him.

“It’s about time _boy_ ,” he snapped as he stepped forward until he was eye level with Regulus, staring down at him in disapproval. “I’ve been here all morning.”

“My apologies,” Regulus replied crisply, though he had no idea what he could have been keeping his ancestor from. Even if there was an emergency at Hogwarts, Phineas was hardly likely to be needed for a consult, previous Headmasters and Headmistresses had overlooked him, the current one ignored him like the plague. In any case, Black’s didn’t explain themselves, which was a good job as Regulus had nothing to say that Phineas would want to hear. He could only imagine the portrait’s grim expression if he revealed that he had spent the last few hours tossing and turning in his bed, being tortured by images of Sirius and Hermione.

“I suppose you are ready for your update now?” Phineas asked petulantly.

“If you would be so kind, Sir.”

Regulus had known his Great Grandfather would seek him out after he had sent Hermione back to relay the details of their trip to Severus. He knew he should have done it himself, knew that he should have already been to speak to his old friend, but he couldn’t face it, not yet, for all that he was adjusting to the future some realities would take more time.

Phineas eyed him until he huffed and slumped back into his seat, this one less grand than Regulus had seen in his other likenesses. “ _She_ came and spoke to Snape, as I imagine you asked her to?” Regulus nodded. “I thought as much, she’s an arrogant little thing at the best of times, but she’s no liar.”

Phineas twisted his hands in his lap, and Regulus waited almost patiently as his Great Grandfather played out his deliberate delay tactics. He was somewhat surprised that the portrait hadn’t sought to bring up what he had done for Severus; his relationship with Snape had been something of a sore spot in the Black household. His father had not been overly concerned, interpreting Regulus’ firm intentions to uphold his friendship as the kind of charity that one must bestow on those that were less fortunate, but inherently useful. His mother had despaired of the association and banned Regulus from ever inviting Severus to their house, Phineas had been very vocal in his agreement.

“It was very brief,” Phineas continued eventually, “in and out, but she has come up again since.”

“Oh?” Regulus prodded, he had been keeping his ear to the ground as much as possible lest more came of Hermione’s act of bringing him into the future. So far he had seen no sign of particular interest in her at the ministry, but he didn’t have the established connections yet to be sure those conversations were occurring outside of his reach, as soon as he was returned to his former status and influence the better.

“McGonagall, the daft brush, wants to offer _her_ a teaching post, and despite all of Severus’ bile he has let slip that he thinks it’s a good idea, which has only served to make the old wench more determined.”

Regulus allowed himself to feel a little amused by his ancestor’s discomfort. “You are not in agreement; I take it?”

“Are you quite mad?” Phineas snapped. “Of course I am not in agreement.”

Regulus laughed. “Have no fear Great Grandfather; I believe Miss Granger is destined for the ministry.”

Phineas rubbed his painted temples. “What is becoming of the world?”

* * *

Later that same week, Regulus found himself back inside the ministry catacombs for what felt like the hundredth time. The passing of time since he had been wrenched forward could be split into distinct phases, in the first few weeks there had been so much new information, so much to come to terms with that the time had seemed to slip through his fingers. Regulus had been afraid of how quickly it had been moving, terrified of how fast he was slipping even further away from the life that he had known, even though that life had been well and truly spent. Now that he had moved on, as much as was reasonable, and was trying to do all he needed to do to establish himself, Regulus felt the opposite; it was as if the world had stopped turning on its axis entirely. He moved lethargically through existence, buried in red tape, and slowed down by protocol and procedures.

Regulus shuffled forward as another person exited the line in front of him to move to one of the designated open counters. He had been stood in the queue for the file clerks’ office for what felt like hours, and this was after he had already been sequestered in a small windowless room all morning signing yet more documents. The still unfamiliar weight of his family ring pressed down on his finger, and Regulus clenched his fists to calm himself. Once this was all over it would be the end of these indignities, the end of having to move around like a serf, to bow and scrape as if he owed these people deference. He wasn’t just _anyone_ , and though many of those he came into contact with didn’t know that, it didn’t excuse this treatment.

When he made it to the front of the seemingly endless line, Regulus deposited his various forms on the desk of the unexpectedly glamorous witch behind the counter and gave her his most charming smile.

“I don’t suppose we could make this as quick as possible could we Miss….” Regulus searched her desk until he found the necessary plaque. “ _Lewin_ , only I have a lunch meeting I would loathe to be late for.”

The witch smiled brightly at his warm address and battered her eyelashes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised eagerly, jumping off her seat to rifle through his forms and amassing the necessary stamps from her unorganised collection.

 _Still got it_ , Regulus thought to himself with an internal smirk as Miss Lewin ran off to speak to her supervisor in search of an expedition permit.

* * *

Regulus sat at one of the less dirty tables in the ministry canteen and eyed his selected sandwich wearily. After the morning he’d had he could have done with a hot meal, but he had struggled to find something to tempt him from what was on offer. His eyes scanned the tired looking _dining hall_ with a contemptuous glare, this would not have been his choice of establishment, but even he could concede it had its uses. Part of reintroduction into society meant actually being out in it and where better to be seen than in the _halls of power_ , or at least, in their canteen.

Earlier in the week, Regulus had arranged to meet with Potter after his latest round of admin wrangling and had been somewhat surprised by the young man’s apparent eagerness to agree. The manners that Regulus was raised to adhere to demanded that he see Potter again and offer his thanks and association after the boy had so graciously allowed him to stay in his home, and though Regulus went through with it, the entire situation still stuck in his craw.

When Potter eventually arrived, looking as bedraggled as one currently undertaking Auror training would generally have looked, he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a tall boy with freckles over his nose and a very particular shade of ginger hair that made his introduction as a Weasley somewhat gratuitous.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Potter began as they placed their much fuller trays on the table, “but it feels like you have met everyone else, this is…”

“Ron, Ron Weasley,” the other boy introduced, pushing himself forward and shaking Regulus hand, gripping it a little too firmly.

The conversation around the small table was stilted, as Regulus had anticipated, it was to be expected when dining with those you didn’t know well. However, once the basic civilities were out of the way, Weasley seemed to take charge of what limited discourse there was, asking all manner of inappropriate questions until Regulus pushed his plate to the side, sitting forward as he narrowed his eyes.

“... I ‘spose you had a girl back in your _own time_ , yeah?” Weasley continued. “One of your lots _usual types_ , all scary beautiful and secretly deadly, ‘spose your folks must have had it all worked out…”

“Weasley,” Regulus interrupted quietly, “do you have a point?”

Weasley put down his fork for the first time since he had sat down and Potter murmured something that he intended to ignore.

“I do, as it happens. Hermione is my friend, and her being _safe_ is important to me, and though your lot look down on people like me, we didn’t do too badly against your glorious leader did we? So I would suggest…”

“Ron,” Potter interjected with a sigh, “leave it okay, it doesn’t matter, Hermione wouldn’t want us to interfere, and in any case, she hasn’t seen him.”

Regulus realised he had the perfect opportunity to let the situation calm; he could hold his hands out in the spirit of friendship and build the bridges he would never have been allowed to as a child. Though that course of action would have meant not willfully throwing the cat among the pigeons, and Blacks were never good at holding their tongues. He may have been more controlled than his brother, but in reality that only meant that his delivery was more polished, if Regulus had something to say, a trump card in his deck, you could be bloody sure he was going to use it, with all possible flourish.

Regulus leant forward on the table as he swiped a chip off Weasley’s plate and chewed it delicately, masking his delight at Weasley’s indignation as he looked at the other boy across from him.

“Potter, when did you last speak to your girlfriend? Miss Weasley, isn’t it? Or even Miss Granger herself? I saw _Hermione_ only the other day. We went on a little expedition of my own design; she was helping me out with a very… _delicate_ task. I’d tell you more but it was rather private, something between only _us_ , you understand?”

Potter reflectively placed a hand against Weasley’s chest and held him back into his seat before the redhead batted it away getting to his feet.

“I’m going,” he spat, and Potter turned to face him.

“Ron, calm down there’s no need to…”

“I’m going to send her an owl, Harry,” he snapped. “I want to speak to her, and that’s how you contact people when you have questions, you send them a letter, and await their response. You don’t hammer on their doors until they begrudgingly let you in,” he turned to Regulus with a sneer on his lips, “ _uninvited_ and _unwanted_.”

“Did you have to?” Potter asked with his arms across his chest as Ron stomped out of the swing door exit.

“Yes,” Regulus replied honestly though he might have felt a smidge guilty about deliberately goading the ginger, if it hadn’t been for the shot Weasley cast back in reply. He realised that he had underestimated Weasley, a bit. The boy that had spent most of the last hour shovelling steak and kidney pie into his face with abandon was more intelligent than he had considered, and certainly more so than Draco had given him credit for when he had given Regulus his assessment of the key players in Hermione’s life.

Regulus looked back over at Potter who was regarding him tightly, as if he was trying to take Regulus’ measure, wholly without success. Hermione’s over-expressive features were irritatingly endearing; the same look made Potter look constipated, which did not inspire the same feelings in Regulus at all.

“Anyway, now it’s just us I have a project that I would like your assistance with?”

“A _private_ project? Or maybe an _expedition_ of your own design?” Potter replied with a lift of an eyebrow and Regulus didn’t quite catch the smile before it formed on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time someone was bold enough to take the piss right to his face, not counting any and every interaction he had with Hermione. _Who had been teaching these Gryffindor’s so much sass?_

Accidental or not, his momentary lapse in the mask had put Potter at ease, and the boy unfolded his arms and resumed eating. “What is it?”

Regulus turned over an abandoned straw in his fingers. “A final resting place for my brother, for Sirius.” Potter stilled, and Regulus decided to plough on while he still had the floor. “It will be somewhere for people to go, somewhere befitting who he was, what he stood for, and where he came from.”

“With all due respect, Sirius couldn’t have cared less about where he came from.”

Potter didn’t see the straw disintegrate to dust into Regulus’ palm.

“I am going to reinstate him,” Regulus assured, deliberately without question in his tone; whatever Potter might have thought he didn’t own his Godfather’s memory.

“It won’t affect him now,” Potter replied dismissively, and Regulus unconsciously rubbed the ring on his finger.

“If there is an afterlife, it will annoy him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Regulus, a complicated soul :)


	9. Chapter 9

Regulus’ fingers moved fluidly as he fastened the buttons on his crisp, white, dress shirt. Once he was done, he took a step back to appraise himself in the mirror and then tucked it into the waist of his neatly pressed trousers. He regarded his reflection impassively, he looked pretty good, even if he did say so himself. His hair still didn’t fall in that artful, ruffled way he had dreamed it would as a child, but then, Regulus was now a long way past wanting it to emulate his older brother. He kept his hair much shorter, and had done since his second year of Hogwarts; his dark, silky waves were clipped around the back of his neck and ears and looked regimented and neat apart from a sweeping fringe at the front. When he left it down a swoop of hair fell across his face until the ends grazed just below his eyebrow. When he wanted to look a little smarter - or more severe - he would brush it off his face, taking away any temporary softness it granted the hard lines of his cheekbones and jaw.

As he moved his fringe back decisively, setting it in place with a few well-practised charms, Regulus idly pondered that so far he had never bothered to make much of an effort when he had met with Hermione. He conceded that was mainly as he had been near throwing himself out of the door each and every time before he could change his mind.

Regulus was more certain about his desire to leave the manor that evening, though it had not been his plan. Since his last conversation with a worse for wear Draco, his cousin's drinking had not improved, and Narcissa had clearly had enough.

-/-/-/-

_Regulus was sat pouring over a series of incredibly old property ledgers; the Black’s had acquired various properties over their many generations, maintaining them over the years even though many were never used. He had decided when he woke that morning that he could no longer layabout the manor in relative solitude, he had to get out and live his life, the life he might have had if not for the mark on his arm. So, Regulus had asked for Kreacher’s assistance once more in locating what he needed and listened to his elf’s jubilant cries as he revelled in the idea of returning to serve the Ancient and Noble House of Black._

_In reality, picking a place to be his home was more difficult than Regulus had imagined. He knew he desired to stay in England but did not have many more criteria at his fingertips to use to narrow the list down, and there was a lot to choose from. He could have assuredly gone for something as grand as the manor he was currently housed in, there were undoubtedly the options, but even though his childhood home had not been a happy one the idea of a townhouse still held a charm that he didn’t understand._

_Regulus was leafing through a stack of parchments, cross-checking an updated set of particulars when Narcissa glided into the room, a small elf scuttled in her wake, carrying an overburdened tea tray. He obligingly moved his documents so she could set out the service and pour and sat further back into his seat, eyeing her patiently, until Narcissa revealed her reason for seeking him out._

_“What are you looking at?” she asked and Regulus turned his papers around to give her a better view. Narcissa moved through the dwindled down pile quickly, pulling out three sheets which she passed back to him without comment before discarding the rest on top of the mass of previously rejected properties._

_“I will come with you to look at them of course,” Narcissa said as if daring him to contradict her and Regulus smiled._

_“Of course,” he readily agreed, he had hoped she would offer, though he and Narcissa did not share a similar esthetic by any means, Regulus couldn’t deny that she knew the current world a damn sight better than he did. He would need her advice to make sure his chosen property was suitable._

_After Regulus had taken his tea and luxuriated in a biscuit made of the thinnest_ _tuile_ _he had ever seen, Narcissa suddenly sat up straighter and placed down her cup._

_“Regulus, I need you to help,” she began decisively._

_He could have asked her ‘what about’ but there was little point, they were behind closed doors, this interchange wasn't for anyone else but them. Regulus threaded his hands together on the desk in front of him, and for the first time since his return he felt the figurative weight of the ring on his hand. Narcissa wasn’t just addressing him as a friend, or even as family, in the absence of Lucius she was doing what she thought was right, what she had been raised to do, she was taking a serious matter to her head of house._

_“I’ve tried speaking to him,” Regulus replied eventually, willing her to understand, “you have seen me, Draco will talk when he is ready.”_

_His goal was not to be dismissive, Regulus understood Narcissa’s concern, and he empathised, he truly did, though for their set her level of worry was… unusual. That said, he wasn’t sure he agreed with her apparent desire for intervention, he had lived under the stern rule of an overbearing mother, and he knew what damage they could do._

_“I’m sorry,” Narcissa replied, her voice gaining strength as she pushed her hands against the desktop between them, “but that is not good enough.”_

_“Narcissa,” Regulus tried, but he was cut off._

_“No,” Narcissa snapped sternly. “I am_ **_done_ ** _Regulus, I am done sitting quietly in the corner while the men in my life tell me not to worry, tell me everything is fine. It is_ **_not_ ** _fine. Draco is out at all hours of the day and night, and when he comes back he never wants to talk about where he’s been or who he has been with. He’s avoiding his friends, his family, everyone he knows. I am_ **_done_ ** _pretending that this is not happening.”_

_There was silence for a few moments as the cousin’s eyes met and Regulus sagged in his seat, he had never been able to deny Narcissa anything, none of them had; from her blonde hair to her soft features she was different from the rest of them, more rare, more precious._

_She hadn’t been the youngest, and yet when they were growing up they had all treated her as such. Andromeda and Bellatrix had carried Narcissa about as if she were a porcelain doll they were afraid to get dirty, and she’d had Sirius wrapped around her finger almost from the moment she had been born. The Black grit, the passionate fire she had inherited, hadn’t shown till later with Narcissa, Regulus imagined it had magnified further as soon as she’d had a family of her own._

_Regulus reached to place his hand gently over hers as Narcissa panted quietly with her eyes averted, the physical act of support had been uncommon between them, but there was no one around to chastise them for fluffy sensibilities any longer, their parents were long dead._

_“What would you have me do?” he asked eventually, giving in to inevitable defeat and Narcissa smiled. Her expression bore all the hints of smug satisfaction and Regulus began to wonder how neatly he had just been played. He shrugged it off, the situation with his young cousin was coming to ahead, he would have had to have got involved sooner or later._

_“Encourage him to go out with you,” Narcissa started, speaking as if reciting from a practised speech._

_“But you said,” Regulus tried to interject, but Narcissa raised a delicate hand._

_“Not out to who knows where, but to a dinner, or some_ **_proper_ ** _kind of engagement, with people he knows in a reputable place.”_

_“And how am I supposed to convince him that is in his interest?” Regulus asked as Narcissa picked up her tea and eyed him over the top of the decoratively carved rim._

_“You forget that I know you, Regulus Black,” she said with a raised brow, “you are_ **_far_ ** _from without persuasion up your sleeve.”_

_“Twenty years ago maybe,” Regulus grumbled, and Narcissa looked at him, her expression hard._

_“I’m sure for you that feels like just yesterday, you only need to remember that. Regulus,” she implored, “help him, please.”_

-/-/-/-

Regulus shrugged into the jacket of his selected robes and rolled his shoulders; he had opted for something less flashy than he had been wearing of late, his clothes were a plain black with no fancy pattern or stitching` to properly highlight their superior craftsmanship’. No announcement had been made to the wizarding papers that he had returned, and though it went against every instinct he had, it would be best to blend in.

Kreacher appeared in his room with a soft thunk onto the plush carpet as Regulus was tying up his boots, and as soon as the ageing elf spotted his occupation, he batted Regulus’ hands away to resume the task himself. He summoned some polish from somewhere and gently rubbed at the leather of the brogues that he could have already seen his face in. As he worked, Kreacher prattled away about an argument he’d had with another of his kind in the Hogwarts kitchens that day and Regulus tried to suppress his childlike grin.

The elf had always been a loud mutterer and Regulus had always believed it was on purpose, if he had left his room in an untidy state Kreacher would have mumbled a running commentary about his sloth as he cleaned, so as to remind the ‘Young Master’ that uncleanliness was not befitting of his rank or status. These small instances of constancy between this new time and his own were comforting to Regulus; Kreacher would always have the utmost belief in the superiority of _his own way_ of doing things, and Regulus would always listen.

“Kreacher,” he began eventually, interrupting the elf as he began to relay - with a mix of disbelief and horror - how Winky had used the same rag to wash down the table and to clean the silver.

“Yes, Master Regulus?” he replied eagerly.

Regulus nodded in thanks for the elf’s exemplary job on his shoes and walked over to the mirror again, turning his back to Kreacher as he made a bit of a show of pulling out the sleeves of his fitted robes to unnecessarily straightening himself out.

“I meant to ask,” he said, as casually as he could, never breaking his gaze from the mirror, “when I saw Miss Granger last, the day I went up to the castle, had she happened to receive any cards that morning?”

Kreacher paused, and his hands came to a stop on the bedspread that he had been ‘redoing’. Regulus was keenly aware that he hadn’t mentioned _the name_ of the day, he would have rather thrown himself off that cliff again before asking whether Hermione got any Valentines, and he hoped the elf wouldn’t make him spell it out.

Kreacher looked up at Regulus, tilting his head all the way back, regarding him without blinking.

“Yes,” he replied finally. “Miss Granger got a card.”

Kreacher jumped suddenly and quickly pulled on the bottom of the sheets, straightening out where Regulus had been sat before he dipped into a quick bow and disappeared away without another word.

Regulus stared at the spot where his elf had just been standing and reminded himself that tonight was about helping curb his cousin's more exuberant behaviour therefore Narcissa would be likely to take a dim view of him having a stiff drink before he left the manor. He hoped the company Draco had arranged would be distracting; it wouldn’t do if he had to remain sober trapped in his own thoughts, trying to work out who had sent Hermione a card.

Regulus shook his head and marched off in search of Draco; it had taken him enough time to convince the blond of the plan for that night, he wouldn't have put it past the Malfoy heir to slip off elsewhere if Regulus was even a minute late.

-/-/-/-

_After receiving his orders from Narcissa, Regulus abandoned his papers and set off in search of Draco, finding him settled in one of the manors many receiving rooms, with a book on his lap._

_Knowing where to begin was harder than Regulus had thought it would be, his cousin wasn’t anything like the boys he had gone to school with, though he imagined much of what they had gone through was the same. Draco was emotional, obsessive, self-pitying and damaged, and while that was all pretty familiar stuff, the weirdest thing for Regulus was that the too thin blond actually showed it._

_"We haven't had as much time together as I would have liked since I returned,” Regulus said, launching in without a plan as he walked into the room, no doubt disturbing Draco from his solitude. “Now that I am almost done with the cripplingly boring obligations of being ‘back from the dead’ I would like to rectify that. Would you be amenable to a dinner, maybe next week? You could invite some of your associates and help me meet some of the right sorts.”_

_Draco looked up from his book with a slight sneer pulling at his features. “I don't need a babysitter,” he protested, and Regulus sighed._

_“You will forgive me if I find that debatable.”_

_Draco didn’t reply though he folded his book shut and Regulus walked closer, sitting on the arm of a chair across the room. “If you must, think of it as doing me a favour, I am in need of meeting some people my own age,_ **_your age_** _, as weird as that still sounds.”_

_Draco folded his arms over his chest. “You do realise that my mother will not be satisfied by this, don’t you? You giving in will only make her push further and further.”_

_“Your mother will be satisfied when you are happy, Draco,” Regulus countered, and Draco glared._

_“Then I imagine she will be unhappy for a while.”_

_Regulus watched Draco’s jaw clench, and he decided to change tack, for all he wanted to help Narcissa and wanted to help for Draco’s own sake, he didn’t know the other man, he needed to tread carefully unless Draco never allowed him to remedy that._

_“What about your friends?” he asked eventually, schooling himself to remain controlled and earnest. “Are you not anxious to see them?”_

_“Not really,” Draco replied with a shrug though he looked away and Regulus looked heavenward, how had the boy survived this long being such a lousy liar?_

_“I understand they have been sending owls,” Regulus continued carefully, “more arrive every day, and yet you do not answer them.”_

_“I don’t know what to say,” Draco replied softly._

_“If they are your friends it won’t matter.”_

_Draco was silent and Regulus, despite trying to keep himself calm felt like shaking him, though he knew that he wasn’t being in any way fair. Draco had experienced a thousand things his friends hadn’t, of all of them he was the only one with a brand in his arm, it singled him out, made all of their previous similarities and shared stories seem a gulf away._

_It had been different for Regulus; his best friends had all been alongside him, it hadn’t made it any better, sometimes it felt like it made it worse. He worried about them more having an all too clear understanding of what it was they were up to their necks in, and yet, when he looked at Draco, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of irritation. All of Regulus’ friends were dead or incarcerated._

_“What can you tell me about Barty Crouch Jr?” he asked eventually and Draco’s head snapped up. Severus had come up in conversation many times over, with just about everyone, but Barty not even once. Regulus supposed that if Draco were not ready to talk maybe he could put him more at ease by leading the conversation onto himself._

_“You want to know about Barty?” Draco asked perplexed, and Regulus nodded._

_“We were friends, of a kind.”_

_They had started school together, him and Barty, and had met for the first time right after sorting, dropping in next to each other on the long benches after the hat had proclaimed they belonged to the Snakes. They had been firm friends from that very moment, with Severus eventually making up their trio, once they had convinced the dour second year to tag along with two firsties._

_Barty had not been the typical Slytherin, in fact, he hadn’t been the typical anything. Most of the students that wore the green and silver tie could be described as controlled and aloof, their malice running unchecked underneath their cool facades. That didn’t apply to Barty. It wasn't that his friend couldn't suppress his feelings - he was the_ **_master_ ** _of repressing emotion - rather, Barty had to hide so much of what and who he was when he was at home that by the time he got to Hogwarts he was so full of pent-up emotions, thoughts, opinions, and personality that it would have been as futile as trying to stop the tide to hold them all in._

_He and Regulus were about as far apart in temperament as it were possible for two wizards to be, and yet their friendship worked for a time, while they were both innocent._

_Draco looked at Regulus for a moment as his head shifted to the side. “Not much to tell, when the Dark Lord fell the first time his father made sure he was put into Azkaban after Karkaroff gave his name as a marked Death Eater.”_

_“Igor was an Order spy?” Regulus spluttered incredulously, and Draco scoffed._

_“Hardly, though he turned in evidence in an attempt to mitigate his own sentence during trial.”_

_That made more sense to Regulus, he had gotten along relatively well with the austere foreign wizard but the idea of Igor being a spy was ludicrous, the man wasn’t brave, and certainly wasn’t reckless enough to have gone down that road._

_Barty having gone to prison was hardly alarming, anyone who knew him by the time he was marked would have told you he had no poker face, plus he was just_ **_so proud_ ** _of being a Death Eater that he often couldn’t help himself from ripping back the fabric of his robes to show off the twisting snake. Barty delighted in the horror on people’s faces, and the power he felt it gave him. Regulus was surprised it had taken Karkaroff to give his name before he was apprehended, he had assumed by the time that he had gone in search of the locket that Barty’s father had already suspected his son’s true allegiances._

_“Is he still there?” he asked with contrived idleness._

_“No,” Draco replied quickly, “his mother got him out of there before the Dark Lord had fully returned. I asked Rabastan once - during one of his more lucid moments - how they had got away with it, ‘a soul for a soul’ he said. Apparently, dementors can’t tell the difference. Anyway, he got out, and Crouch Snr kept his wayward son under lock and key until Barty broke out and found the Dark Lord.”_

_So his brother had not been the only one to get out of Azkaban._

_“Barty was another one of the ‘shoe kissers’ by all accounts; he liked to tell anyone who would listen - which wasn’t a great many people - that he was the most faithful. Makes me glad I never met him, properly, he sounds far too like Bella for my taste.”_

_Regulus could picture Barty kneeling before their Lord and kissing his rings eagerly, he always had been so eager, so broken already, he could only imagine what imprisonment had done to his friend._

_“When he returned to the Dark Lord’s side, they concocted one of the more stupid plans to resurrect him together, and unbelievably it was the one that actually worked.”_

_“The Goblet of Fire,” Regulus murmured as the pieces slotted into his mind and Draco nodded._

_Potter had mentioned something about it, a Death Eater passing himself off as Mad-Eye Moody, but he had never said his name. Hermione hadn’t mentioned much at all, bar the death of a boy at Hogwarts and the casting of unforgivables in some maze. Narcissa had told him that the man involved had been kissed, Regulus imagined her choice not to give the name had been more deliberate._

_“And his father?” Regulus asked finally._

_“Barty killed him.”_

_Some small part of Regulus was comforted by that fact, grim as it was it meant that all of Barty’s rather limited dreams had been realised; he had served the Dark Lord well, and he had killed his father. Regulus could imagine that his friend went to his grave happy._

_Regulus knew that Barty had other desires, but sadly none that he could have helped him to achieve, much as he may have wanted to. His friend had tried it on, just the once during their fourth year, they had been experimenting with Firewhisky. Before that they’d had the odd tipple, but that night it was a skin full, and when they had stumbled up to the otherwise empty dorm they had tripped over a broom - that evidently hadn’t found its way back to its proper home - and landed on the nearest bed, together. Barty had fallen ungainly, directly on top of him, and when their drink induced hysterical laughter had died down Barty had dropped his head to press his lips softly against Regulus’ skin._

_Regulus had immediately stiffened, though not in the way Barty had, and he had clasped his hands on Barty’s shoulders pushing him away. Barty had paled, and Regulus had seen real fear on his face before he sat them both up and told his friend that he was sorry, that he didn’t care for him like that. Regulus had asked him if he understood and Barty had nodded, though Regulus didn’t quite believe him._

_He had caught Barty staring at him sometimes when he must have thought Regulus was unaware, he had seen a few of those looks since the third year, but Regulus had always ignored them, until that night, the night when Barty had acted, and suddenly his perception of their friendship changed._

_From that moment on both boys battled to be everything the other needed them to be, but Regulus wasn’t sure either were truly satisfied with the results. For himself, Regulus felt a mixture of selfishness and shame for clinging on to Barty so tightly when he could never give him what he wanted; Regulus needed their friendship too much to do the right thing and allow them the distance necessary for Barty to let go. For Barty, Regulus often wondered if their continued closeness had hurt his friend more than he would ever truly appreciate, making him second guess every shared laugh or a kind word in case there was now more affection there than there had been that night in their dorm room._

_Regulus had still caught Barty looking, right up until what had become his last days, only by then the looks had a twisted hint of anger instead of pained adoration at their depths._

_“I don't really know all of the details, Potter could tell you more,” Draco continued, dragging Regulus out from his thoughts so abruptly he almost panted for breath. “Barty joined the rather large club of people that unsuccessfully tried to kill scarhead at the end of the fourth year.”_

_Regulus gazed at his cousin appraisingly. “You don't sound particularly sad about your fallen ‘brother in arms’.”_

_Draco’s eyes hardened. “The man was a lunatic, he only got away with it for so long as he had conveniently disguised himself as_ **_another_ ** _lunatic. Though Mad-Eye had the benefit of being on the side of the Light, and their PR machine branded him understandably eccentric instead of dangerously unhinged.”_

_“I’m missing something,” Regulus said as his brow pinched._

_Draco groaned. “He turned me into a fucking ferret alright?” he snapped, and Regulus gaped._

_“Don't fucking talk about it,” Draco warned, even though Regulus had not so much as put a coherent sentence together in his mind. “You might be family, but that's a do not touch.”_

_“I understand,” Regulus replied placatingly, but it did nothing to calm Draco’s explosion of temper._

_“Do you?” he responded acutely, and Regulus sat forward._

_“Draco, I turned my back on the Dark Lord to defend my house elf,” he said dryly. “Believe me, I understand areas of particular sensitivity.”_

-/-/-/-

* * *

The restaurant Draco had booked was far off the beaten track, and after a short Floo journey the pair walked for a good ten minutes in near silence until they reached a building that looked pretty nondescript from the outside, apart from the two burly men, in ill-fitting suits, standing on either side of a clapped out door. Whether this particular establishment had been selected in deference to Regulus’ not quite _legally alive_ status or Draco’s own preferences, Regulus couldn't be sure. It was not somewhere he had ever before, though it had the air of a place that had been there before anyone that was walking around inside had been born.

After a muttered word from Draco they were within the walls, and like so many things in their world the reality behind the mask was entirely different. The restaurant was comprised of a single, large dining room that was square in shape, with dark wood floors split down the middle by a line of booths. The walls were painted in the very darkest grey, but barely any of the paint could be seen as almost square every inch of space was covered with pictures, of every conceivable type of study. Each of the varying paintings were surrounded by ornate gold frames that refracting the light from the candles burning above their heads in modern looking chandeliers.

They were led towards the back of the room by an attentive maître d' in a neatly pressed white robe who zig-zagged through the closely set tables like he had been doing it since birth. When he made it to their table, the man bowed with all expected flourish before bouncing off to acquire a wine menu, and Draco began the introductions.

Sat on his own on the otherwise open side of the table was Blaise Zabini, a dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed wizard that eyed Regulus with an air of frank appreciation before he took over from Draco - who was all too happy to fall into his seat - pointing to the more occupied side of their table.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he began in an affected drawl, “this is Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass and Grey Goyle.”

Regulus shared the appropriate greetings and took his seat; he was placed between Blaise and Draco, opposite the smiling Miss Greengrass. Daphne leant forward attentively as Regulus took his position and poured him a glass of water from the carafe on the table, he thanked her with subtle raise of his now filled glass, and she blushed prettily at him, Regulus smirked back. It may have been an entirely contrived display - pureblood girls ‘performed’ for pureblood boys in the hopes they wouldn't notice them spinning out their webs around them - but it didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.

As Blaise and Draco began arguing with Theo about some potion he was determined he could brew or some such nonsense, Regulus made his selection from the menu.

“So, Miss Greengrass,” he began as he closed the heavy velvet folder and handed it back to the waiter, “tell me about yourself.”

“What would you like to know?” she asked as she pulled her fingers down through her long blonde hair, moving the weight of it to lay over one of her shoulders.

“Whatever you deem appropriate to tell me,” he replied with a glimmer in his eyes, and she blushed again. Suddenly, Regulus didn’t feel so out of sorts; he was used to this, having this effect on women. It was somewhat gratifying to realise that not every female he interacted with would roll their eyes or mock his formality. He ignored the fact that he missed it.

As they settled into conversation, Regulus appreciated how the chatter from the paintings above the diners heads created a low-level hum that both added to the ambience of the dining room and efficiently masked the exact words from the nearest tables.

Once he and Miss Greengrass had discussed her immediate family and current uncertainty over what she wanted to do with her life, Regulus fell quiet, content to let those around him talk, interjecting only the occasional comment. The long-standing friendships and genuine affection around the table was pleasant to see, and Draco appeared more communicative than he had in months. Regulus had known he was meeting some of his cousin's school friends, but even if he hadn’t known, he would have guessed the Hogwarts house they had resided in from their relative lack of reaction when he was formally introduced. Theo’s eyes had widened, and Greg and Daphne had blinked several times, but there had been no more acknowledgement than that.

After their meals were placed in front of them, the conversation turned to the safest common denominator, Hogwarts or more accurately, their former classmates. According to Blaise, the vast majority of the would-be eighth year Slytherins had not gone back to school, and Regulus listened attentively as Theo talked about having already finished his remote study and applying for a potions mastery.

“Has anyone heard from Pansy?” Greg asked as Blaise was in the middle of recounting an incident involving a broom cupboard and a case of mistaken identity and the table fell into an awkward silence. Regulus noticed the tight lines every one of them was holding themselves in, and he wondered at the size of the elephant in the room had just been exposed. If it were truly as sensitive a subject as it appeared he marvelled at Greg being the one to raise it, the portly boy had barely managed to speak two sentences together the whole evening. Regulus hadn’t tried to force him to open up, not when he was happier to be silent.

Draco had filled him in on most of what he needed to know before arriving, like the true friend he was, his cousin hadn't given Regulus too many details, just enough for him to successfully navigate the dinner and to avoid offending.

“I've seen her,” Draco said eventually, but he didn't elaborate further, and Theo sighed as Daphne snapped her head in the blond’s direction.

“She sends the odd owl,” Theo admitted as if it were a reluctant secret, “her letters are mainly complaints about the food at Hogwarts and her parents - so, you know, nothing new.”

Daphne snorted elegantly. “Nothing new? She's made friends with Granger _of all people_ , and now she says she's moving in with her once the term ends,” she turned to Regulus with her eyes sparkling. “Forgive me, we are being incredibly rude, talking about people you don't know, Hermione Granger is…”

“I am aware of Miss Granger,” Regulus interrupted, having no desire for Miss Greengrass to finish her sentence, “we are… _Acquainted_.”

Daphne and Theo sat back in their seats with the first real hint of surprise in their faces that Regulus had seen all evening, Greg helped himself to a liberal top up and Blaise laughed, the sound rich and warm. If Regulus wasn’t mistaken, he was sure he spied the hint of a mean little smile on his cousin's lips.

* * *

Rather than an unpleasant recollection from his youth, that morning it was an unending crash of glass that woke Regulus up, an unthinkably loud smash that was followed by raised voices and a slammed door. Regulus eyed the sculpted carvings of the guest room ceiling wearily before sitting himself up.

He did not bother to linger in bed and dressed quickly, walking down the stairs, moving towards where he thought the noise had come from and was confronted with the now all too familiar sight of Draco pouring himself a drink before staggering towards an armchair. With his clumsy footing, he narrowly avoided two elves that were crouched on the floor, attending to the broken glass while openly scowling at him.

“A bit early do you not think?” Regulus began, and Draco eyed him dejectedly, there were dark circles under his eyes that were so pronounced against his pale skin they looked blue, almost the same colour as his very rumpled suit.

“That wholly depends on your perception of time,” Draco replied as he gave Regulus a mock salute with his glass, “as I haven't been to sleep, to me, it's actually rather late.”

Regulus rubbed a hand over his face and wondered what he was going to say in his defence when Narcissa _rightly_ came to wring his neck. He had done what she had asked, he had gone with Draco to a _civilised_ dinner, but then, at the end of the evening, Draco had refused to come home, disappearing off into the darkness and demanding that Regulus did not follow.

“Draco, how long are you planning on doing this?”

Draco threw back the liberal measure he had poured himself with barely a wince and leant back into his chair. “I have no idea, Cousin, you should ask someone else, planning isn’t really my forte.”

“Is that so? Then tell me why the drink?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Perhaps not,” Regulus shrugged, “but there usually is. Granted some people drink for pleasure, but I think you’ve moved a little beyond that now. Most though, they drink to escape, to forget or to punish themselves.”

Draco stared off into the middle distance, and Regulus waited him out, keeping as still as possible while his cousin turned his words over in his mind.

“Maybe a little of all of them,” he said eventually, as he ran a finger absentmindedly against the rim of his now empty glass.

“I’m listening.”

Draco pushed a hand into his hair, sending his already askew blond mop into disarray.

“Everything,” he began quietly, “everything when _he_ came back, everything went to shit. I had a perfect life, not that I thought so at the time, and then it all fell away. I thought I was so brave, so strong, so ready, and then....” Draco trailed off.

“I understand,” Regulus tried.

“No, you don't,” Draco countered softly, ”for all anyone knew you were dead, you have no idea what it was like for me.”

Regulus considered that it was true in a way, with the way the Dark Lord operated it was impossible to know precisely what each follower was tasked with, he was far too paranoid to allow you to be in each other’s confidences, but he was sure he had a reasonably good idea.

“It was alluring at first, was it not? Being in the Dark Lord’s presence, under his patronage, one of his _chosen_. Yet, you never really believed you wouldn’t get the mark on your arm, with the families we come from there is no such thing as a locked door, our heritage grants us access wherever we choose, so why not the most exclusive _club_ in the Wizarding World? An association so worthy and restrictive that they brand the arms of the _pure,_ so everyone will know that they are special, better, untouchable.”

Regulus could hear the large grandfather clock in the hall chime as he allowed his mind to slip back to those last meetings he had attended with a willing heart. To him, it was only a few weeks ago that he was still very much a faithful servant, and then the sheen had been removed from his vision. Ignorance had really been bliss.

“I do not think I can pinpoint the moment when it all changed, though when it was all over, and I knew the truth a hundred little images came back to me. The way _he_ smiled when I knelt before him for the first time, back when he still told us to call him Tom, as if he was one of us, I should have known then, I should have seen the hunger in that smile. I should have known when I could smell Avery’s flesh in the back of the meeting room, the night he was branded, that was before I was marked, and even so, I still lined up.”

“What do you see?” Draco asked as he stared at the floor. “When you try to close your eyes.”

Regulus almost said Hermione, though he managed to stuff the name to the back of his throat, it was a change from his usual instinctive answer, though no less vital to be buried. When he had been active in his Death Eater duties he used to see Sirius; Sirius harmed by his own wand, Sirius harming him, he had never been sure which would have caused him more pain. Now it was her mixed in with images of the past, deeds he had undertaken willingly, and those not so.

Hermione’s goodness haunted him far more absolutely than anything else had done, knowing her made all his previous actions seem darker, less excusable.

Regulus eyed Draco’s empty glass and tried to conjure the most honest answer he could, some of the things that he had witnessed would die with him, they were his burdens to bear, others he could share, if it would help his family.

“I see that green spectral snake glittering in the sky, I remember the rush of feeling it used to bring out in me. How repellent it was that the macabre calling card for death and destruction looked almost festive, how, even if I hadn’t raised a wand that particular night, part of what had happened was my fault because I hadn’t tried to stop it.”

“I see,” Draco began before shaking his head and summoning a decanter towards himself.

“Draco,” Regulus mildly reprimanded but his cousin wasn’t listening.

“You need to know something... about Granger,” he said as he prized the solid stopper from the bottle and poured with reckless abandon.

Regulus waved him off. “I know everything.”

“I don't think you do,” Draco countered, “at least, I don’t _think you can know,_ given you’ve never asked about _where_ it… anyway, if you want to know what I see, it’s Granger.”

Regulus’ head snapped up, and Draco sat forward, leaning his forearms on his thighs as his knee bounced.

“They got picked up by Snatchers, her Weasley and Potter, did she tell you that?”

“No,” Regulus replied softly as he sank into a chair and Draco nodded.

“I didn’t think so. They were brought here, and not just by any old scouting team; they were picked up by Scabior and Greyback.”

Regulus’ throat tightened at the recognition of what that could have meant; many would have believed that not much would have scared a Death Eater, those people had never met Greyback.

“She had done something to Potter’s face to try and make him unrecognisable,” Draco continued, waving a hand in front of his cheeks as if to demonstrate. “It didn’t really work. Bella turned up and asked me if I knew who it was, I said I couldn’t be sure, nothing more committal than that. I thought for a while that meant I still had some goodness in me,” Draco laughed, and the sound was a hollow, tin like noise.

“I used to hold on to that when I closed my eyes, when I would see Granger, battered and bloody on the manor floor, I would remember that I had _tried_ and it would give me enough reprieve that I would manage a few hours rest. Then they came to the trails, mine and mother’s. Hermione Granger sat in that horrid courtroom and stared dead into the eyes of a woman who allowed her to be tortured on her floor and reiterated everything Harry had said. How we deserved leniency, even though we had given her none. Suddenly my one little act of courage wasn’t enough of a talisman anymore.”

“Draco,” Regulus croaked, “in the course of war.”

“You’re not fucking listening,” Draco shouted, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet of the early morning.

“She laid there, trapped under Bella as that rabid bitch attacked her with the Cruciatus curse again and again. When Granger stopped screaming Bella picked up her favourite blade and cut at her until she was in a pool of blood. She finished with a final _Black flourish_ and carving crude letters into her arm, until she was branded, _just like us_ ; but her version marked her as what she was, what I had called her for years, to identify her as inferior.”

Draco picked up the weighty stopper from the decanter, pressing his fingers into the glass for a moment before he threw it against the wall with a loud smash.  

“Mudblood,” he spat, “that's what I see when I close my eyes, the words ripped into her skin, dripping with blood that looked just like… just like mine.”

Regulus sat forward and snatched the decanter out of Draco’s limp hands to pour himself his own glass.

It was an hour before he could swallow.

* * *

Sometime later, when Regulus came back to his senses, he realised he was still nursing half his drink in a large glass, and Draco was long gone. He couldn’t think of anything worse at that moment, but he knew he needed to head into the small reception room the Malfoy’s used for breakfasts and spend some time with his hostess. Regulus hoped it would be a distraction from the chorus of unanswered questions he had spinning around in his mind.

 _Why hadn’t she told him?_ She had been honest in their conversation, starkly so; Hermione had confronted the darker moments of her part in the war, but not this. He had spoken about the manor, about Narcissa and Draco, and still, she had said nothing.

Regulus reluctantly abandoned the remainder of his drink and entered the corridor, suddenly struck by the knowledge that he didn’t know _where_ it had all happened. He paused in the hall for a moment looking one way and then the other before he walked away, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Regulus entered the small breakfast room to find Narcissa at the head of the table cutting toast with a level of ruthless efficiency that made him decidedly uncomfortable. He sat heavily in the seat next to her and nodded at a scurrying elf who kindly poured him a coffee as he debated whether or not his stomach had settled enough to eat.

“When I asked you to help my son, I had hoped you were mature enough not to fall into an _if you can't beat them join them_ mentality,” Narcissa said with acidic sweetness, unfortunately for her Regulus was in no mood to hear her complaints.

“Not now, Narcissa.”

“Of course not, _my lord,”_ she replied sarcastically before passing him the folded paper that was at her elbow.

Regulus, grateful for something to do, picked up the Daily Prophet and began idly flicking through the pages, not taking anything in. The pictures moved and swirled about in front of him, but all he could see was Hermione’s arm. He thought back to when he had seen her last, when they had shared a drink together, only now in his mind’s eye as she was speaking the coat that she had been bundled under ripped at the seams and revealed a jumper sleeve, soaked in blood.

“Page twenty is particularly interesting,” Narcissa chimed, and Regulus rolled his eyes, he had no interest in the society section. He plucked the handle of his coffee cup gingerly and forced the liquid down his throat. He better understood Draco’s predicament now, but he couldn’t empathise as well as he might have led his cousin to believe, for himself his dreams had always been about the pleasanter things in his life, those were the things that came back to haunt him. Memories of when he had been happy before he had made the wrong choices. He had never feared to go to sleep, only waking up.  

When it came to recounting the grim realities of life under the Dark Lord, Regulus’ had struggled more with the wandering of his thoughts as he went about his day, and the ability his mind had to reimagine the horrors he had seen with startling accuracy.

“What is on your agenda today?”

Regulus swallowed the near scalding liquid and turned a page. “Visiting the properties we shortlisted, would you care to come?”

“I can hardly trust you to make the decision alone can I?”

Regulus merely nodded, it wouldn’t do to be on his own much that day, he didn’t entirely trust himself not to go barging up to the school, and if he did that again within a few weeks of his last visit, McGonagall was likely to hex him. What would he even do if he got there? Charge in and demand to see her arm, scream at her for not telling him? Why would she have mentioned it, he was nothing to her.

“All of the properties are _rather large_ ,” Narcissa said as she pushed her half-eaten food away.

“So says the Lady of the Manor,” Regulus replied dryly, trying to keep his mind both on the idle chatter and his spiralling thoughts.

“Yes, well, I have a family,” Narcissa said, and Regulus raised an eyebrow, “a small one, but _a family_ all the same.”

Regulus’ shoulders became tight. “So will I… one day.”

Narcissa pinned him with a stern look and Regulus went back to the paper. “I take it you have met Pansy Parkinson since you returned?”

“I have.”

“How did you find her?”

“Combative.”

“Draco said you asked some questions about Hermione Granger.”

“I did.”

Narcissa gave a weary, over-dramatic sigh, the kind an actress would have made before placing a hand against her brow and crumpling to the floor. “You are being overly elusive,” she chastised.

“You are being strangely inquisitive.”

“Well, I do hope you got on well with some of the current Hogwarts student body, I would like you to accompany me to Draco’s graduation ceremony.”

“He did not go back,” Regulus said, puzzled, and Narcissa tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“No, at the time he did not feel… able. Though, since then he has completed his classes remotely and is eligible, he could just receive a certificate by owl post, I think he would prefer to, but the ceremony is important, and it is high time he was seen.”

“It's not for another term yet.”

“A date for your calendar then.”

Regulus had been distracted by Narcissa’s incessant questioning, so much so that he hadn’t realised he had reached the section she had indicated earlier. There, smack bang in the middle of page twenty was a picture of them all at dinner the evening before; the photographer had caught a moment as he had leant forward and topped up Daphne Greengrass’ glass before she regarded him with a coy smile from under her full lashes. They were the only two at the table who were leaning in, and it gave the strange effect - from the angle of the camera - of fading the others into the background, and making it look as if it was just them out for the night.

The paper didn’t give his name, it would appear his likeness was unknown to the reporter, but what did that matter? There was a photo, and were they not supposed to say a thousand words? Not that this one would have needed to, there were more than that written in the copy. While Regulus might have been identified only as a ‘mystery bachelor’ they were less circumspect in inventing his intentions. Miss Greengrass was an eligible witch, and according to the article, the mysterious man was making a play for her heart.

“If you expect me to accompany you to a series of cobweb infested dwellings I best put on something less... well, me,” Narcissa said as she got up from the table, shaking Regulus from his thoughts. He managed a slight nod before his eyes returned to the article until Narcissa’s heeled feet paused in the doorway.

“Daphne Greengrass?” she inquired in a calm voice, it was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“A girl I was introduced to at a dinner _your son_ arranged,” Regulus replied, and Narcissa smiled at him, a disturbingly similar expression to the look he had caught on her son’s face the night before.

“A little predictable don’t you think, _Reggie_?”

“I…”

“I’m sure _your mother_ would have been _so proud_.”

And with that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Technically Kreacher was not lying about the card, technically, and that is why he is my favourite. 
> 
> The parts of this chapter relating to Barty Crouch Jr are reworked sections I have borrowed from one of my other fics, After the Meeting, which was where I established my dreams of little Regulus, Barty, and Severus all being friends at school before the whole world went to crap.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione slipped one of her many scattered ties around her neck and began threading the red and gold fabric through the loop she made; her outward actions were regular, docile, and routine, while inside she was reeling. She had woken up despairing over her hairs uncontrollable volume, the dull shade of her pupils, and her unevenly full lips. Her traitorous eyes fell to the Daily Prophet that remained on her bedside table, and she was glad she had thought to close the paper before she went to bed. Not that she needed to see it, Hermione knew full well what was there.

In her mind’s eye, Hermione could picture Daphne Greengrass’ long blonde waves falling like water over her perfectly sculpted shoulders. As Hermione’s fingers involuntarily tightened she pulled the knot in her tie too tight and released a low groan; she needed to pull herself together; she had more important things to think about, at least that was the theory.

Hermione had a meeting with the headmistress scheduled for later in the day, and this time, thankfully, it was all part of the general curriculum. Soon it would the end of the second term, and careers meetings had been arranged for all of the departing students. Ginny had already had hers, the visit being understandably brief as her friend had signed a contract to play Quidditch full time. Luna’s had been equally speedy, with her plans to follow Rolf taking more shape she had gathered together various maps and charts to show their professor what the duo - and support team - were planning before she laid out her end goal of taking up a position at the Quibbler with her father. Pansy had remained curiously tight-lipped about her one on one, and Hermione had done her the courtesy of not pushing her nose into it.

Hermione pulled on the jacket of her robes and cast a quick eye around the dorm to make sure she was truly on her own before she seized up the paper and tucked it under her pillows. She wasn’t likely to make it back that evening before the others, and she knew if she left it in the open one of them would take the chance to throw it away. Hermione couldn’t blame them for the impulse; it was precisely what she would have done if the situation was reversed. Hermione _knew_ she should get rid of the folded parchment, continually looking at what passed for an article was at best, unhelpful, and at worst… at worst it was a lot more painful than she could ever have anticipated.

Luna had come back to their shared dorm the previous evening as Hermione had been getting ready for bed, and Ginny and Pansy were exchanging barbed comments about some dress Ginny had said she liked, or some other such nonsense. In all of the familiar commotion, Hermione hadn’t noticed her friend’s unusually grave appearance until Luna had glided to her side, chewing on the ends of her long blonde hair. Luna’s almost unnatural stillness immediately put Hermione on edge, so much so that when she handed her that day’s edition of the Daily Prophet Hermione had prepared herself for the worst, speculating that it would possibly contain another scathing article about one of her friends, or an infringement on creature rights.

But it was neither.

There, in black and white - as her mother used to say - was a picture of Regulus and Daphne Greengrass having dinner together. Up until that singular moment, Hermione had always considered wizarding photography to be far superior to it’s Muggle counterpart. Muggle photos were a snapshot in time, a captured and condensed still life from which all kinds of strange assumptions and misconceptions could be born. Wizarding images were different, not only did they record a longer fragment of time, they took something of the moment along with them, securing a mood along with an image. So when the picture in front of her rotated and Regulus Black gave Daphne Greengrass a half smile she had never seen as the radiant blonde batted her eyelashes, Hermione felt her throat close.

It took Hermione a while to process that there were words around the scene she was fast committing to memory; they were forgotten much like the friends that were currently standing around her. When she became aware of both again, despite no effort from the first, and every effort from the last, neither was of any use.

It was clear to Hermione that the reporter had no idea who Regulus was, and so the rest of what they had padded out the copy with was mere speculation, loaded, hurtful, crass speculation. Hermione knew enough from her own experience that such articles could be total nonsense, but the picture though, that was… unexpected.

Hermione put her pillows back into the usual places and stepped away from her bed, reasonably confident that the girls would not pry further if the paper was not left out in the open. She hoped her ‘display’ from the evening before would be forgotten quickly, and they could go back to the much less helpless state of only mentioning Regulus every few weeks.  

 -/-/-/-

_Hermione shook her head as Daphne’s monochrome wine glass filled for the hundredth time. Without giving any outward reaction, she allowed the paper to be pulled out of her cold fingers by Pansy, who then clutched it between her hands, her eyebrows raising every few lines before she thrust it into Ginny’s direction._

_So began a good half an hour of both girls raging about everything Regulus Black had ever said or done, in their time and his own. Hermione appreciated the effort, she really did, but she couldn’t focus on anything they said in any detail, certainly not enough to reply._

_Now free from the unwilling, unbroken gaze she’d had with the image, Hermione realised - with some disappointment - that she couldn’t be angry with him; they weren’t a couple, in any sense. Regulus had made her no promises, and she had hardly made any overtures of affection herself. Yet, as a voice in her mind couldn’t help screaming, she had brought him forward in time, snatched him away from a sure and violent death; shouldn’t that count for something?_

_In her blankness she remembered a definition of soulmates that she had read long ago, there was nothing that decreed that the relationship between two joined souls had to be romantic. Hermione could have laughed; what a ridiculous irony that for most of her adolescence she couldn’t have wished for a more perfect gift than that of a friend who would be so well suited to her that their souls were fated and yet he appeared now. Hermione regarded Pansy’s sharp eyes and Ginny’s red cheeks, and she realised she had plenty of friends, more than enough for a girl like her. Now she wanted more, even if it sounded like a childish demand even to her own ears._

_As she sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her toes into the thick carpet, Hermione became panicked when she felt water begin to coat her lashes. It wouldn’t do to get upset, she didn’t know Regulus, and even with what she had learned there were traits she didn’t much like. To her growing irritation, she couldn’t sort out and rationalise her feelings; she had lost nothing, and in the same instance, she felt as if everything had been taken away._

_As Pansy’s impassioned rant moved on to criticising Regulus’ hair, of all things, Luna slid onto the bed next to Hermione and grabbed one of her hands, intertwining their fingers._

_“You okay?” she asked softly._

_Hermione nodded, though the single word that came out of her mouth was, “No.”_

_Luna looked at her appraisingly before she laid her head against Hermione’s shoulder. “Sometimes, with soulmates, it can take a while for the magic to settle, my mother once told me that true soulmates could never really hurt each other, at least, not without hurting themselves.”_

_Hermione allowed her head to fall on top of Luna’s and tried to feel comforted by her words, though it was a struggle. Despite having owned up to Regulus about the spell that had brought him forward in time, they had never discussed the ramifications of what that meant, for either of them. For all she knew, Regulus intended to actively ignore that connection, and now that he had everything he needed from her, she would never see him again. Apart from articles in the paper, her mind unhelpfully taunted._

-/-/-/-

As Hermione picked up her school satchel and changed her books she pulled all of her letters out of the front pocket she still needed to sort through. Her mouth curved into a smile as she recognised the messy lettering on the top of the stack. Her last letter from Ron had been _different_ from his usual missives. It appeared Harry had tried to right an unintentional wrong and introduce her friend to Regulus - the only one of their little circle who had not made his acquaintance - Hermione appreciated the intention though she could have foreseen the result.

She picked up the letter and reopened it, skimming over the familiar talk of training exhaustion mixed in with his anticipation of future adventure, until she reached the part about the ill-fated lunch. Hermione had felt pure comfort from the tone of her friend’s letter, making her appreciate just how much she valued their friendship. Her relationship with Ron wasn’t always peaceful, they very often brought out the worst in each other, though Hermione appreciated having someone exactly like her friend in her life, and her corner.

The note showed off how much he had matured, especially over the last couple of years. Although Regulus had antagonised Ron - in almost the same way Malfoy would have when they were all at school together - he seemed most concerned with her safety, and in his own awkward way, he explained that he didn’t want her to get hurt.

Hermione’s fingers trailed down the parchment until she came to her favourite line.

_You would have been so proud of me ‘Mione, Regulus was a total dick - put me right off my food - and I could have reacted badly, I really could of, but I didn’t. I got up from my chair and left; I didn’t even try to hit him. Not once. Though I have thought about doing it a lot since I left the canteen, maybe you could let me know what it felt like to hit Malfoy, again?_

Hermione was all for personal growth, especially when it came to Ron, though she couldn’t entirely silence the tiny, not very nice part of her, that wished Ron had lost control of his famous temper, just this once. She consoled herself that it was possible he was still destined to do so, and the universe - realising it owed her one - was waiting until she was there to witness it. Or, Hermione reasoned as she tucked the letter away, maybe she would have to do it herself.

Hermione sucked in a breath and tried to expel all of the negative thoughts that were circling her like vultures; she didn’t know how typical teens coped with this kind of stuff, her past crushes had been fleeting and mostly harmless. The rational part of her mind, the bit right at the core of who she was - that spoke in a voice very much like how she had sounded in the first year, when she had barged into a train carriage and demanded that Ron show her magic - it told her to forget about him. Feeling a strange affinity for Ron and Harry, Hermione felt her conclusion was probably right, but it didn’t necessarily mean that she needed to follow her own advice.

* * *

The atmosphere inside the headmistresses office was a good deal less tense than it had been since Regulus had ‘dropped in’ on them, and Hermione felt her spine relax as her favourite professor offered her a small smile and waved her into the room. Professor McGonagall looked weary, which was to be expected; Hermione’s appointment coincided with the beginning of final lessons, and the headmistress would have been seeing students all day.

After a few open enquiries about her studies, their light conversation turned to the future, and Hermione admitted - a little bashfully - that she wasn’t entirely sure about her destiny. She had wanted to provide a more concrete answer, especially as her teacher had taken the time earlier in the year to discuss the very same with her. To Hermione, it felt as if she had been given a special assignment and had come back months later with nothing to show for it. Cringing, and expecting admonishment, Hermione was taken aback by the headmistresses regarding her with some amusement.

“It may surprise you to learn, Miss Granger that when I finally skipped out of Hogwarts grand doors, I had no more idea than you do now as to where my life would lead,” she began.

“What did you do?” Hermione asked eagerly, having never heard anything of Minerva’s life before she became a teacher.

“Travelled, worked here and there, eventually did a mastery, several in fact, before Albus Dumbledore was given the headmaster role, and invited me back.”

The headmistress smiled at some long forgotten memory, and Hermione tried to imagine her being as carefree as she described, some of her scepticism must have shown as Professor McGonagall laughed. “It was a different time, Hermione, and despite our shared love for academics we are _different_ people.”

Hermione nodded and reached for her teacup to allow herself a second or two to think. She was sure that the kind of adventure the professor had alluded to would be inviting for many, her friends included, and Hermione could admit the inherent romance of such an idea was compelling, in theory, _but for her?_ She knew it wouldn’t do; she wanted stability, rules, challenge, measured progression…. Hermione was halfway through her list before she realised that she had something, for the first time in months she had managed to think about her future path without drawing a blank. It wasn’t much, but it was a frame, a skeleton that she could use and build on. The ever-present knot in her chest that had lived within her for most of the last year loosened a fraction.

“In any case,” Professor McGonagall continued, totally unaware of the epiphany her student had just had, “you are far from without options. I do not doubt that many organisations and employers will try to attract you to join them, which is one of the things I have to speak to you about today.”

“Oh?” Hermione replied sitting forward.

“Yes, following our last meeting with you, Minister Shacklebolt would like to offer you an internship at the ministry.” Hermione paused in her action of reaching for a biscuit before her head snapped up in surprise. “In the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, she had been expecting Kingsley to push the ministry as a future employer but offering an internship undoubtedly exceeded her expectations. Not only was the opportunity prestigious it also played right into her ideals; in that department, even if she was only a lowly intern, she could still feel like she was doing some good in the world. Her mind began to race, and she wished she had a piece of parchment with her until her reaction was noted by the headmistress who sighed.

“I must say I was rather impressed with his cunning,” she said with reluctant approval. “He knows you better than I thought, in trying to secure your interest he is attempting an appeal to your soft heart.”

Hermione giggled at the implication that the Minister of Magic was being somewhat manipulative in his offer, but then again, this was politics.

“I would love to hear more,” she said eventually and was surprised to find that she meant it. No doubt it would be hard work, and she would probably have to weather constant campaigning for her to take a full-time job, but it would give her something to think about. Not to mention she would once again be located in the same place as the boys day in day out, which was no small draw.

“I thought you might say that,” the headmistress replied, “we have set up for you to have tea with Kingsley at the end of the week, he will tell you more about it then.”

“Thank you for your time professor,” Hermione said gratefully, but the headmistress wove her off.

“Think nothing of it, Hermione, but before you go, I have something else to put before you,” she said as she stepped away from the table, “and I must admit from the outset that in spite of warning you about the machinations of others, I present the next topic with a great amount of self-interest.”

Hermione looked up at her professor as they walked across the office towards the door, her curiosity peaked.

“I would like you to consider a training post here, at Hogwarts, when the final term ends. There are several areas of study you would be suitable for, and you could prep over the summer with a timetable that would suit you, before becoming full time when the new intake of students arrive in September.”

“Aren’t I a bit young to be a teacher,” Hermione blurted instantly before the idea - or how flattered she was - could truly register in her mind. She was well aware that she was bossy, and had no real problem chastising her friends into studying or setting them additional reading, but to stand in front of a room of new faces and make them both respect and want to learn from her, could she do that?

“I’m not sure I have the temperament,” Hermione shrewdly observed and in spite of her initial focus on the obstacles Professor McGonagall seemed pleased.

“Another young person, who had the same reservations you have mentioned became one of this castles longest standing professors if not one of it’s most popular.”

Hermione’s eyes instantly slid to Professor Snape’s picture behind the Headmistress desk, but instead of feigning sleep like the rest of the portraits seemed to he had one eyebrow ever so slightly raised, Hermione took it to be something of a silent challenge.

* * *

Later that week, Hermione found herself enclosed within another office of power, though despite the loftier authority figure, having tea opposite the Minister for Magic turned out to be decidedly less formal than a careers chat with her former head of house. Kingsley had given Hermione a broad smile as she poked her head around the door at the allotted time before throwing his head back with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so glad to see you, Hermione, I’m not sure I had another budget plan conversation in me this afternoon.”

Hermione grinned back. “I’m always pleased to be favourably compared to fiscal responsibility, Minister.”

Kingsley’s laugh boomed in its usual way, releasing a sound of unbridled mirth that made Hermione feel warm and immediately at ease as he stepped out from behind his grand desk and shrugged off his heavily embroidered jacket.

“Please,” he said amiably, and gestured towards a small table with a tea service already set out, “take a seat.”

Hermione had expected him to get right to it, he was a busy man after all, and if his harassed looking assistant was anything to go by, this was far from the end of his day. Though as he took his seat, she quickly released that despite Kingsley’s earlier larks he was definitely in need of a bit of a break.

While he poured the tea, they discussed their mutual acquaintances, laughed over silly stories and he moaned about how tired he was, though Hermione saw through his thin mask, tired he may have been, but far, far from unhappy. Kingsley seemed to buck the trend of leaders of the free world everywhere by actually looking younger now he was in office. She supposed few men and women who’d had to face what Minister Shacklebolt had to get to where he was, and from that perspective, it was no wonder he looked revitalised despite the crinkles around his eyes.

After several refreshed cups and an animated and rather a silly fight over the last biscuit, Kingsley pulled out a file that had been resting on one of the empty chairs between them and handed it to Hermione.

“I understand Minerva…”

“Professor McGonagall,” Hermione corrected instantaneously before a deep flush overcame her cheeks. “I am so sorry,” she apologised, “force of habit.”

Kingsley smiled though he seemed to be fighting against laughter in light of her embarrassment. “I understand _Headmistress_ McGonagall,” he continued with a smirk, “has already given you the broad strokes of what this will be.”

Hermione nodded. “An internship of sorts.”

“Exactly that,” he replied slapping his thigh as he regarded her intently, “it is nearly the end of your second term and I thought that a week or two here, during the break, would do you good, give you an idea of what it would be like to work within the ministry.”

“It’s a very generous offer.”

Kingsley snorted. “Nothing generous about it, I think we could use your help.”

“Really, Minister? Hermione challenged with a raised eyebrow. “You need me?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he chastised lightly, “and yes, I do, there is still much to do. The obvious threat of Voldemort has been eradicated, but before his demise, he had burrowed himself deep within this organisation, and all of the roots need to be removed to ensure the movement that he headed up doesn’t grow back. I need people I can trust in the ‘halls of power’, people that are here for the right reasons.”

Hermione fell silent as the Minister’s face took on a darker edge, she admired Kingsley’s ability to shift from affable wizard to avenging revolutionary in a mere moment, it was how he had got the position after all. Kingsley was likeable, credible, and willing to upset the applecart to do what he needed to ensure that what they lived through never happened again.

“Also,” he said, his voice quieter now, more unsure, “I owe you this.”

One of his large hands gestured towards the file Hermione was still clutching, and she eyed it blankly. “Owe me? Whatever for?”

“I want to see you make the best of your life, Hermione, and I will do whatever I can to help. Though everything I have told you about your intelligence and innate sense of justice is true, I have to admit to a selfish desire for some absolution, for my part in allowing you to become involved in a war you were far too young to be fighting, let alone so close to the front.”

Hermione was shocked that he was carrying such an invented burden, from her foggy memories of Order meetings she could only recall Mrs Weasley being reticent to send them into battle, she had imagined all this time that the others merely went along with Dumbledore’s scriptures on the greater good. In any case, Kingsley wasn’t responsible for her.

“It was hardly your decision,” she countered, “I threw myself into it because it was the right thing to do.”

Kingsley sat back in his chair not entirely hiding his discomfort. “I fully understand that Hermione, and I commend you for both your morals and your bravery. While from your perspective I can see why you would think that, from mine, where I sit now, it was not the right thing for me to allow it.”

“I do not think we will agree on this point, Minister,” Hermione said with a tilt of her head and seemingly almost against his wishes Kingsley’s mouth pulled up into a smile.

“See, Hermione, you’ve been here mere hours, and you are already arguing with the Minister for Magic himself to carry your point, this is the right environment for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she glanced up at the clock. “If you say so. I better be going. I’m sure you must have more important things to be getting on with.”

Kingsley followed her gaze before looking back over his shoulder at the door. “Stay for a bit longer, will you? I can take you through my proposal and see if we can’t work our way through another pack of those custard creams.” 

* * *

When Kingsley’s assistant finally risked entering the office to tell the Minister he was running incredibly far behind, Hermione tucked the file he had given her into her bag and left him to his fate with a cheerful wave. She opted to exit the ministry using the Muggle street entrance, popping up in the telephone box and laughing to herself as no one that was rushing around seemed to find it odd that twenty or so people exited the tiny space one after the other.

A few minutes later she jumped onto the next bus heading in the general direction of Grimmauld Place. Wizarding transportation was excellent, but it did mean that you lost pockets of what had previously been ample thinking time. Holding onto the railing for dear life, Hermione quickly climbed up the stairs to sit at the front of the top deck. It was quiet, being the middle of the day, though the traffic milling about was still substantial. Ideally, she could have done with a book, but she hadn’t thought to bring anything, instead she stared out of the window trying to order her steadily spiralling thoughts.

It was difficult to face the reality that on that very afternoon she had agreed to an internship at the Ministry of Magic, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures no less. A few short years before such a privilege would have had her punching the air in sheer joy, she was still pleased, vastly so, but the achievement didn’t feel as crowning as it once would have. The _halls of power,_ as Kingsley had called them, had lost a bit of their long imagined shine. Not only had Hermione endured some nasty experiences in the building itself, but her view of the organisation as a whole was also forever tainted by how quickly the government had slid into Voldemort’s waiting palm.

At the end of the war, Hermione had collected what she could of the paraphernalia that had been peddled to ordinary folk during their time on the run; sensationalised bios on the Order of the Phoenix and Undesirable posters that listed their supposed crimes. She had shared it all with Harry and Ron, and somehow they found a way to laugh at it all, but there was a rawness there they didn’t discuss, and when Ginny had come home to find them surrounded by it she had suggested they burn it, and they had readily agreed. But, unbeknownst to her friends, Hermione had kept a copy of the lurid pink pamphlet ‘Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society’ as a reminder of what many people were happy to believe she was if it kept them and their families safe.

The bus lurched around a tight bend and Hermione was unhappily reminded of the Knight Bus as she contemplated the documents tucked away in her bag. Whatever her reservations, she was still Hermione Granger, and there was no way she would have turned down the opportunity the Minister had designed for her, especially with a cause so close to her heart. The headmistress had been right, Kingsley was applying to her more revolutionary sensibilities to win her favour. After the week she’d had, being actively courted, even if it was just for a job, was somewhat gratifying.  

Once Hermione had got her bearings and hopped off the bus she managed to find her way to the magically emerging house and knocked on the door.

“Come through,” Harry called brightly from the kitchen as the door popped open allowing her entrance. After the headmistress had set up her meeting, Hermione had asked if she could come back to the castle via Grimmauld so she could catch up with Harry. One of the many downsides of still being at school rather than out in the world of work was the restrictions on her movement, and she had not been able to see her friends anywhere near as much as she might have liked in recent months.

As Hermione stepped over the threshold of the kitchen, Harry span around holding up two large Tupperware containers, both full to the brim.

“What can I whip you up?” he said with a grin and Hermione returned his expression happily.

“Mrs Weasley still sending her care packages I see.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “I imagine they will continue until the end of time, or at least I hope.”

Once Hermione had made her selection they set to work, moving seamlessly around each other in the kitchen, heating the pre-made meal and setting the table. They had got used to it in less pleasant conditions, while they had worked side by side in the tent.

Hermione updated Harry with all she now knew about the internship as he, in turn, filled her in on the progression of his accelerated training, which led to Hermione admonishing him over a new scar on his arm, inflicted when he wasn’t paying attention.

“So,” he began warily after topping off their pumpkin juice. “I saw Regulus the other day.”

“So I gather,” Hermione replied blandly, and at Harry’s inquiring look she clarified, “Ron sent a letter.”

“He threatened he might, I wasn’t sure if he would go through with it,” Harry said before looking at her with the kind of grimace that gave away how concerned he was over the possible contents.

Hermione shrugged. “It wasn’t bad, for Ron the letter was pretty measured. I’ve replied, and we have spoken since, he is not angry, not with me in any case,” she amended quickly. “How did you run into him anyway? Regulus I mean.”

“We didn’t,” Harry explained as he pushed his empty plate away, “meeting up was pre-planned, he owled ahead saying he was going to be in the ministry and asked if I wanted to have lunch.”

Hermione felt a stab of jealousy at Harry’s admission which was followed by a much more substantial feeling of self-reproach. That Regulus Black hadn’t seen fit to contact her - in the mode that any reasonable person would - in all his time in their lives was not something she should care about. _The bastard._

“What did he want to speak to you about?” she asked as neutrally as she could and forgot her internal wranglings when she was faced with Harry’s obvious discomfort.

“Harry,” she prodded.

He groaned, getting up from his place on the opposite bench to fetch a Butterbeer. “He wants to create a resting place for Sirius, a memorial of sorts, some plaque or something, somewhere for people to go to remember him.”

“And you are… _unhappy_ about that?” she tried, unsure as to what was agitating her friend.

“Not exactly,” Harry replied, ruffling his hair, “not the idea itself in any case. Though I’m annoyed at myself that I didn’t think of it before now, it was more the way Regulus talked about it. He kept repeating how it needed to be a fitting gesture, something that reflected where Sirius came from and his _status_.”

Hermione was sympathetic to Harry’s distress, Sirius had been the closest thing to family he had ever known, and though their time together had been short, they had shared a bond, as real and as vital as he’d had with anyone else in his life. Harry knew Sirius, as he was at the end, but Regulus, he knew another bit of him too, and Hermione felt that by rights they both should have some say in deciding what was best, though whether either of them would compromise would remain to be seen.

She finished her dinner as Harry recounted some of his favourite Sirius stories, all of them ones Hermione had heard countless times, though she never complained. Inside though she couldn’t help but remember the other tales she had heard lately when Regulus had come to her flat, those were ones she had never heard before, and judging by Regulus’ demeanour, might never again.

-/-/-/-

_“He always seemed so protective,” Hermione said, anxious for something to say to fill the silence, she had told Regulus everything she remembered about the Department of Mysteries, and though she knew he must have already heard it from many different sources, it seemed to strike him._

_“The Sirius I knew would throw himself in front of any foe to protect those he cared about, whether or not they asked for it.”_

_Regulus reached for the whisky and poured himself another measure, Hermione felt the need to tell him to slow down rise in her throat, but she dismissed it, he wasn’t her concern._

_“When I was around six I had a bout of accidental magic,” Regulus said eventually after a stretch of uncomfortable silence, his eyes hadn’t left his glass for more than half an hour and Hermione fought to keep herself still in case she interrupted him._

_“I’d had them before, but never anything quite as strong as that. Sirius and I were playing hide and seek, and I had been crouched behind a sofa for what felt like ages, when Sirius eventually found me, he snuck up so successfully that I panicked and… well, I’m still not sure what happened, but a lampshade made of black oily looking feathers got incinerated. When my mother walked into the room with a fire in her eyes, Sirius stepped forward at the same time as I shrank, he didn’t even need to lie and say he had done it, he just stepped right up to take the inevitable punishment. He had welt marks on the back of his legs for weeks after that, and he never complained, he said girls would like him more if he had scars when he was older.”_

_Regulus looked up with a bitter half-smile that made Hermione’s eyes prickle._

_“He must have changed his tune as he got older,” he continued, “as far as I know he kept all of those sorts of scars very much to himself.”_

_-/-/-/-_

“Whatever their history,” Hermione said once Harry had finished reminiscing, “Regulus is Sirius’ brother, he needs to be allowed to grieve in his own way.”

“Maybe,” Harry conceded, “I just wish he hadn’t assumed leadership of it all.”

“Why, because that’s your job?” Hermione asked cheekily, and Harry scooped up a large bit of mashed potato onto his spoon.

“I’m not afraid to use this,” he warned, and Hermione shrieked in protest, knowing just how real that threat was.

Once Harry allowed his attacking pose to lapse, Hermione risked getting out of her seat and collected up the crockery to set it to rinse. “Maybe you and Regulus should pause on the topic of Sirius for a while; it might be best to avoid an argument if you are determined to be his friend.”

“I am not _determined to be his friend_ , Hermione,” Harry chastised, “It was one lunch; I just thought it would be nice, you know?”

“I know,” Hermione agreed before turning off the water and heading back to the table.

“In any case, if we can’t talk about Sirius that doesn’t leave us much common ground, seeing as talking about _you_ is completely off the table.”

“Why can’t you speak about me?” Hermione asked, and Harry slumped back into his seat.

“We tried that remember? I got pissed off, and Ron had to leave the room so he didn’t assault him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Regulus was only mean to Ron to make himself look superior that’s what all these boys are like, remember Malfoy and Zabini? It’s all the same thing.”

“I get what you’re saying, and you know I would normally bow to your superior understanding of the human mind,” he said with a mock bow that made Hermione stick her tongue out, “but I don’t think that was what it was.”

“No?”

Harry shook his head. “Ron went for him pretty hard at the start, mouthing off in his usual way, and Regulus barely blinked, the only thing that seemed to bother him was when I said that you hadn’t seen him. By the way, I take it that slipped your mind?” Harry said archly, and Hermione winced.

“Sorry,” she replied meaningfully, “honestly, it was the weirdest thing, him showing up like that and then he disappeared again seemingly never to return so by the time I wrote to you it didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

It wasn’t a total lie, though it wasn’t far off. Hermione had thought about telling Harry everything as she would typically have done, but what Regulus had asked her to do, to help him do, was intensely private and not just for him. Harry might have seen professor Snape’s memories, but that had been at the man’s request when he had been left with little choice.

Harry’s hardened expression relaxed though he didn’t look like he completely believed her, Hermione tried to take his suspicion as an encouraging sign, she might be able to get less past him, but at least she would sleep better at night knowing he was going to be a good Auror. Though, a good future law enforcer or not, he certainly didn’t seem ready to drop the subject.

“I get that part of the confrontation was the... what does Ginny call it? Dick measuring?”

“Lovely image Harry, thank you.”

“But it was more than that,” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Regulus could have just corrected us, said you had seen each other or ignored it completely if it was such a big secret, but he did neither, and he made a much bigger deal of it than you are making now.”

“What’s your point, Harry?” Hermione pressed exasperated, and Harry shrugged.

As Harry concluded his thoughts the memory of Regulus looming over her at the edge of Hogsmeade forced its way to the front of Hermione’s mind. **_I_** _apply to you_. She tried to pass off the shudder that moved through her as a sudden chill, but given the raging fire in the hearth, it was hardly convincing.

“Pudding?” Harry asked eventually, and Hermione relaxed.

“Mrs Weasley?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes.”

Hermione was able to conceded by her third spoonful of bread and butter pudding that she was beginning to understand Pansy’s unrelenting complaints about the catering at Hogwarts until her appetite failed her entirely when Harry falteringly brought up the society article in the Prophet.

“How did you even see that?” Hermione demanded. “You never read the paper, not from the front anyway; Quidditch scores and for some reason, Horoscopes are the only things you bother with.”

“Ginny sent a note,” he admitted with reluctance, and Hermione felt a wave of searing anger for a moment before she pushed it down.

“Of course she did,” she replied quietly. She should have known better than to think that Ginny and the others would leave it alone after her repeated assurances that she did not want to discuss it further. Telling Harry had been a master move, though it made them both incredibly awkward; Hermione could discuss things with Harry that she couldn’t with anyone else, he had seen her at beyond her worst and had never looked at her any differently. Though willingness could only go so far, Harry knew as much about relationships as she knew about the male mind, the pair of them were up the proverbial creek very much without paddles.

“So, what now?” he asked when Hermione couldn’t find a way to start, and she stared at her lap.

“I don’t know, he runs off with perfect Daphne Greengrass and they have a million pure, flawlessly proportioned babies, with excellent hair and each one gets its own front page spread in the profit…”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted.

“I know, I know, I’m being _insane_ , I’m letting an article in a paper - that I have never trusted - bother me but... urgh,” she groaned in frustration. “I don’t even like him most of the time.”

Harry smiled at her, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What?” she demanded.

“Just thinking back to something Ron said,” he offered casually. “He was winding up Regulus about the type of girl the Black’s would have wanted for him, and he described this imaginary woman as ‘pretty scary’ and… now, don’t get angry,” he warned, raising his hands in front of himself for good measure, “but I thought, well, that’s like you isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” Hermione bit out coldly, and Harry scrambled.

“Look, you’re no Narcissa Malfoy...”

“By all means keep digging.”

“You know what I mean, but you’re completely terrifying when you want to be, and you know, pretty, I guess.”

“Please stop, Harry.”

“Gladly.”

* * *

By the time Hermione got back to her dorm, it was late, and she was utterly spent. People thought that spending time around Slytherins could be draining, with all of their concealed agendas and well-timed barbs, but she could tell those people a thing or two about spending the day conversing with Gryffindor men with the bit between their teeth.

Illuminating the end of her wand she quickly got changed and jumped into bed, securing the curtains around her before she felt for the rustle of parchment. All week she had kept the paper hidden away, though she had managed to limit herself to only looking once before she went to sleep, any more than that and she really would have a problem. She had come to admit a few nights before that not all of her repeated glances were to punish herself by trying to work out what the feeling was between the couple in the photo. Another part of her simply wanted to look because it proved Regulus was real; with all of the circumstances surrounding his sudden arrival and his continued sporadic contact it sometimes felt like she had dreamt him up.

Hermione pulled the braid out of her hair and settled the parchment on the top of her covers but before she could open it her curtains were wrenched open, and Pansy threw herself on top of it, crunching the parchment beneath her sock-clad feet.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, and Hermione shrugged.

“What?” she asked with an utterly ridiculous attempt at innocence given how red her hands were.

“You know what,” Pansy admonished. “Stop tearing yourself to shreds comparing yourself.”

Hermione made to argue, but Pansy’s firm glance stopped the words in her throat and instead she pushed her teeth into her lip as Pansy pulled out her wand and with a quick flash reduced the paper to ribbons.

Hermione knew they would have noticed, she hadn’t said anything, but it had taken her longer to get ready than ever over the last few days, for the first time in her life she felt she could spend hours in front of the mirror, not that it would have helped. She was a lost cause.

She wasn’t angry at Daphne; it would have been even more ridiculous if she had been, she couldn’t help envying her though. For her straight blonde hair and her perfect lips and her bright blue eyes. But mainly for the way she made Regulus smile at her like that.

“It was for your own good,” Pansy said harshly, though she reached across the small mound of rubbish to place her hand over Hermione’s.

“Pansy?” Hermione asked a few moments later, once the shock had worn off.

“Yes,” she replied quickly, shuffling forward so they could hear each other better without speaking loud enough to wake the others.

“Are men always this difficult?”

In the low lighting, it was hard to make out Pansy’s exact expression though Hermione had the horrible feeling she was regarding her with something that looked a lot like pity.

“I don’t think men are all that hard to work out, _usually_ , though anyone’s actions can appear strange if we don’t have all of the context, the harder thing is… is working out how _you_ feel about them, and harder still, is acting on it once you know.”

Hermione sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d rather go back to when I was more oblivious and feel nothing more than mild curiosity.”

“Join the club Granger,” Pansy said dryly, “standing room only I’m afraid."


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione caught the balled up top that was launched in her direction and set about folding it correctly before adding it to her growing pile of clothes. The last few weeks had melted away in a flurry of deadlines, extra reading and early revision and now they were packing again, preparing to catch the Express back to London the next day.

Pansy was sat on the end of her bed, carefully placing her uniquely ordered lipsticks inside their designated travel holsters, entirely ignoring the escalating chaos around her. Ginny was bouncing from foot to foot as she gleefully shouted lines from the training camp brochure she had received in the post earlier that week. After a few days at Grimmauld Place, Hermione’s friend would be off to get to know her fellow Holyhead Harpies at a camp in Gibraltar, ahead of joining their starting line up at the end of the school year.

Hermione packed her trunk with a heavy heart; her movements weighed down with the knowledge that this was their last ever break. When the next term came to a close, they would be leaving, this time permanently.

Luna was sitting on the floor in front of her own incredibly disorganised case, singing to herself as she tried to pair up socks that Hermione was sure had ever been matching. The blonde was going away for a few days with her father, and would barely be in London a full day before she travelled to the destination he had yet to disclose. Hermione imagined Luna was determined to spend quality time with Xeno before Rolf swept her away.

As Luna’s possessions reached the top of her case she gently placed in the new magical camera that had arrived for her - a gift from Rolf - sent for her to get accustomed to ahead of their trip. His accompanying note had been hugely entertaining - though, thankfully, this time not posted with any erotic supplement - as he sent love to them all from some far-flung place.

Hermione had no plans to travel, though she would not be on her own. After the article in the Daily Prophet - that the girls no longer spoke about - Pansy had declared her intention to return with her for a few days of this break. ‘As a trial run,’ she had said, before implying it was so she could instil any changes that were necessary before she took up residence. Hermione saw through her. Pansy didn’t want her to be alone, didn’t want her to be still lingering on the negative thoughts that had been stirred up inside her. There would have been a time, not long ago, when Hermione would have challenged the assumption that she couldn’t cope, she would have hated anyone doubting her independence in any way. Now though she found she was grateful for the promise of company.

As an argument broke out over spilt candle wax on a silk cami, and Hermione pressed the last of her books back into her trunk and surveyed her empty area with a wry smile. One more term.

* * *

As the Express  _finally_ pulled into King’s Cross, the girls exited the train compartment in a flurry of limbs before the steady chugging of wheels had even come to a complete halt. The journey had felt longer than usual, and Hermione - like the others - longed for some fresh air, and something to eat that wasn’t wrapped in thick, tasteless pastry.

Hermione was the last to make her way out of the carriage, cleaning up their wrappers as she moved into the confined hallway. Now that they could legally apparate the hours cooped up seemed even more pointless than they had before, and Hermione had spent a large part of the journey cursing her earlier belief that to take the train was a somewhat romantic upholding of tradition.  

When she made it onto the platform, her trunk hovering at her heels, Hermione gulped in a huge breath and waved at Harry who had an excitable Ginny plastered to his front, much to the horror of Ron. Ron was standing just to his left with a comical look of disgust on his face as he prodded his sister in her side, trying to dislodge her from her position in Harry’s arms.  

Hermione stood away from all of the reuniting families, twiddling her fingers in her coat sleeve as Pansy and Luna said goodbye to each other. Thankfully, she wasn’t left to ponder her orphan status for too long as Xeno Lovegood approached - wearing robes as eccentric and bright as ever - and he pulled her into a warm embrace.

“Hello, Mr Lovegood, how are you?” she greeted kindly, pleased to see a familiar face.

“Well, Hermione, my dear, I am very well. Looking forward to some time with my girl before she goes off on her travels.” His eyes crinkled delightfully as he looked down at her and Hermione couldn’t help her grin. Much like his daughter, Xeno was one of life’s truly good people, the Lovegood’s could make any situation better just by being there. It was an incredibly rare trait and something that Hermione cherished.

“Luna too,” she chimed in response, “she was speculating over what you might have planned over dinner last night. She’s very excited.”

“And I am thrilled to hear it,” Xeno answered softly and he began to speak again, no doubt to ask about Hermione’s plans for the holidays when their conversation was interrupted. An exuberant mother a couple of steps down the platform screeched as she greeted her son, who had grown more than she had expected while they were apart.

Hermione watched the young boy’s face flush as his mother continued to loudly dote on him, before the woman turned and gestured at her husband, apparently seeking his agreement with her overzealous findings. Despite her amusement, Hermione felt an uncomfortable weight pressing against her chest, and she looked away to find Xeno turned from the same scene, regarding his daughter who was now approaching them, the pain of impending separation visible in his too blue gaze.

“I’ll visit, while she is away,” Hermione whispered before the girls reached them and Xeno covered her hand with his much larger one.

“I would like that, Hermione,” he replied earnestly, tightening his grip. “I would like that a great deal.”

Hermione nodded and moved her hand away as Pansy stepped beside her. “And you, Pansy,” he continued, nodding at the most recent addition to their group of friends. “You would be most welcome to.”.

“I…” Pansy faltered for a moment before her neck straightened and she regained her usual poise. “Yes, Mr Lovegood, I’ll be there.”

* * *

When Hermione opened the door to her flat, she just resisted the urge to collapse against the hallway wall, and instead dropped her bags to the floor. Xeno had _insisted_ that she and Pansy join them for lunch, and as much as both girls had tried to get out of it - not wanting to infringe on Luna’s time with her father - they were very plainly, though inexplicably kindly, overruled.

Hermione gripped her strained fingers tightly in her other hand as the feeling came back after lugging her bags and promptly spun on her heels to properly welcome a decidedly unimpressed looking Pansy.

“It’s smaller than I remembered,” Pansy said dismissively as she glanced around and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“It’s a central London flat Pansy, not a country estate.”

She brushed back past her static friend and shut the door that Pansy had left wide open. Hermione resisted the urge to ask whether she had been born in a barn. For one, Pansy would not understand the Muggle reference, and for two she knew that it was less the agricultural origins of the house Pansy had grown up in, and more that it had come with ample servants that affected her behaviour now.

“Come on,” she scolded, huffing to move Pansy’s weightier belongings next to hers, “let’s get a cup of tea and then we can get you unpacked.”

Hermione had only moved a couple of steps when Kreacher appeared, right in front of her, and she stopped on reflex, narrowly avoiding a small pile-up of bodies.

“Kreacher,” Hermione shouted as she attempted to right herself without injury, “you scared me-”

“Sorry, Miss,” Kreacher replied with a low, somewhat shaky bow.

“-I didn’t expect to see you,” Hermione continued, and bit her lip as Kreacher regarded her with interest. “Outside of Hogwarts,” she eventually qualified, after deciding that ‘in my home’ didn’t sound particularly polite.

Kreacher rocked on his heels with his arms held behind his back, a movement that seemed far too contented for the typically taciturn elf. “Not needed there, Miss, needed here,” he said with the air of one explaining a fundamental fact to a small child. “Hello other Miss,” he greeted Pansy before scuttling towards the door to grab their bags.

“Kreacher, there is no need, I’m sure you have other things to be doing,” Hermione protested, unsuccessfully attempting to prize the trunks out of Kreacher’s grasp. For such a tiny thing, he was decidedly strong.

Kreacher shook his head and wrenched the bag back towards his body. “Needed here,” he repeated. “Master not moving into a new home till next week.”

Hermione’s fingers lost purchase on the handle she had grabbed when Kreacher spoke, though her arm remained static in the air, stretched out between them. “Regulus… is moving?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Kreacher confirmed, grinning widely, apparently oblivious to the warring emotions that were making themselves known in Hermione’s stomach, and no doubt on her face. “Opening another great house belonging to the Ancient and Noble House of Black. Kreacher will leave Hogwarts to look after Master there.”

Hermione straightened and resisted the urge to grip her middle, lest she reveal how winded she felt. Logically she knew she was overreacting and yet she was powerless to stop it. Since their last meeting, Hermione had carried on more aware of the void Regulus’ continued absence left than ever. Hermione had wondered whether it was further soulmate magic, but she had refused to look it up. Regulus had disappeared, so it didn’t need to be explained, or so she had told herself. Then there had been the article, and she had forcibly attempted to banish all thoughts of him, to have them appear more fiercely than ever. Now information was falling in her lap without her seeking it. It was like consuming a sumptuous meal after months of starvation, she knew she should stop herself in case it made her sick, but the calm voice in her mind couldn’t dampen the explosion of taste on her famished palate.

Against the advice of multiple voices, all screaming in her mind, Hermione couldn’t help but press. “What is it like? His house, I mean.”

“I’m sure the young Miss will see it soon.”

Hermione had no idea why Kreacher would think such a thing, in her estimation, it didn’t seem likely that she would ever see Regulus again, much less his reopened pure blood manor. If anything, he appeared further beyond her reach than ever.

She had at least stopped herself from asking where it was,  _thank heaven for small mercies_. Not that Hermione was a ‘turn up without invite’ kind of girl, but somehow she knew it would be worse if she found out. It was more information to torture herself with. She imagined him with Daphne Greengrass enough without picturing what their perfect mansion would look like.

Her unhappy musings were cut short when a firm hand wrapped around her upper arm and dug into her flesh. “I believe you promised tea,” Pansy said, but all traces of her earlier ill humour were gone as she pulled Hermione down the corridor.

Hermione nodded. “I did, sorry I…” she glanced back at Kreacher who was stacking boxes, “I got distracted,” she finished, and Pansy nodded.

As Kreacher produced a duster from who knew where and began polishing up the hallway unit, Hermione made one last attempt to discourage him. “You don’t need to do that now Kreacher; why don’t you come and have a drink?”

“Shut up he wants to help,” Pansy interjected, pulling on her arm more insistently, “Merlin knows this place could do with it.”

“Fine,” Hermione grumbled, walking away from them both and heading into the kitchen. “Do excuse my plebeian Muggle etiquette.”

A short while later, when they had finished up their tea and Hermione had got sick of Pansy eyeing her as if she was about to have a total breakdown, they went in search of Kreacher to find that the elf had left without a by your leave. Not that Hermione was particularly put out, only slightly distressed that it was likely not the end of Kreacher popping up at all hours, noticed or not.

The girls continued down the corridor to Pansy’s room, which at one time been Hermione’s library come study. After she and Pansy had agreed that she would move in at the end of the year, she had done all she could to ready the room.

“Here,” she said as she opened the door, “I’m sure Kreacher has put all of your stuff away.”

Hermione walked in with Pansy right behind her. The room was smaller than hers, though only just, and the decoration was somewhat different. It had taken a little while, but Hermione had eventually settled on a dark purple for the walls, with the same colour in softer hues for the bedding and darkest wood for all of the furnishings. The room was cosy, elegant and most of all, expensive looking. The pièce de résistance, at least in Hermione’s opinion, was the makeup unit she had built, located on the wall behind the carved dressing table. Hermione had taken a small, old bookcase she no longer used and added a series of shorter shelves and hooks to it before mounting it on the wall, giving Pansy ample room for her sacred lipsticks and stupidly expensive brushes. The last order of business had been to install all of the additional things Pansy had purchased during their trip to London, though Hermione did not doubt that her new housemate would want to move everything around to suit her.

“Do you know what I think, Granger?” Pansy asked as she laid a hand on one of the throws at the end of the bed and glanced around at all of the new additions.

“What’s that?” Hermione replied idly.

“I think you have more taste than your general appearance would lead anyone to imagine.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “There was a compliment buried in their somewhere wasn’t there?”

Pansy grinned, “Maybe.”

* * *

Hermione had just stuck a couple of hastily purchased pizzas in the oven when there was a knock at the door. Pansy eyed her expectantly, but she merely shrugged, she had no more idea who it might be than her guest. Well, she supposed as she walked towards the door, she should probably stop thinking of Pansy as a guest, as she was going to be living there permanently soon enough.

Hermione wrenched the door open and found Ron huddled up on the top step looking at her pleadingly. “Hey ‘Mione,” he began as he brushed past her into the flat, “sorry to barge in, but Ginny’s at Grimmauld and well,” he stumbled as heat rose up his pale neck. “Her and Harry haven’t seen each other since-”

Hermione instantly raised her hands in front of herself, knowing exactly where this was going. “Please just stop and come inside,” she commanded, pointing her blushing friend in the direction of the kitchen.

Hermione wasn’t a prude, at least she didn’t think she was, but that didn’t mean she was happy to talk about Harry’s sex life, least of all with Ron. She knew that some people talked about that kind of thing happily, but she wasn’t one of them. Firstly, she had no sex life to speak of; secondly, the opposite sex had never been much of a consideration for her or her friends while at school, sadly they’d had more to be contending with.

At her easy acceptance, Ron brightened and sniffed the air, “What are you having?”

“Pizza.”

“That take away stuff?” he asked excitedly.

“No,” Hermione replied, stepping around him as the timer in the kitchen started to beep shrilly.

Ron eyed her with concern. “You didn’t make it, did you?”

“Its premade, from the local supermarket,” Hermione sniffed and then glared when he dared to look relieved. “I’ll have you know I’m not a bad cook Ronald.”

“If you say so, ‘Mione.”

Any thoughts of food were quickly replaced in Ron’s brain when he entered the kitchen and spotted Pansy, sitting on the other side of the breakfast bar as she leisurely flipped through a thick looking magazine.

“What’s she doing here?” he demanded hotly, and Hermione ignored him, heading instead to the oven where she whacked the timer a little too harshly. _They can put a man on the moon, but they can’t invent a timer that goes off with a cute tune? Something that welcomed you into the kitchen to collect your meal rather than demand your presence and scare the crap out of you at the same time._

“I could say the same about you, Weasley,” Pansy responded airily, though her eyes retracted to slits.

“I’ve got every right to be here!”

“Not anymore.”

“Both of you stop it,” Hermione tiredly chastised as she attacked the _slightly_ overcooked pizzas with a cutter that was a little past fit for purpose. “Ron, Pansy is living here now,” she explained, and Ron gaped.

“But I thought you said that wasn’t until the end of next term.”

“Yes, well, we thought it would be a good idea to have a trial run, to get used to each other.”

“You could have said something.”

“If you hadn’t just barged in she probably would have had a chance to,” Pansy sneered, and Hermione sighed.

“This is ridiculous; Pansy get some plates, Ron the glasses, I am sure we can get through one meal without killing each other.”

Hermione dropped the pizzas in the middle of her friends and reached out to grab the first wine glass that Ron had retrieved. Ron and Pansy were eyeing each other as if a meal in the others company was a fate worse than a grim death and Hermione knew everything would feel a million times better after the second glass of wine. At least, temporarily.

* * *

Hermione advanced through the steadily growing crush leading up to the ministry atrium, all the while revelling in the sound her new heels made against the heavily lacquered floor. Pansy had helped her get dressed that morning, and despite everything Hermione had ever said about clothes being a waste of time, she couldn’t deny that she felt more commanding dressed up, and older too, which, given her overgrown schoolgirl status, was no bad thing.

Monday, the first day of her new internship and in many ways, what felt like the real beginning of her adult life. Hermione had eventually agreed to commit a week and a half of her two week holiday to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She could have almost floated away in excitement - if it wasn’t for the rolling nausea she had been experiencing on and off since she had woken up keeping her grounded.

As Hermione stepped away from the main reception with a newly printed access card pressed into her palm, a familiar figure stepped out to block her path. “Kingsley,” she greeted happily, “I didn’t expect a welcome committee, let alone such an important one.”

Minister Shacklebolt smiled and tilted his head, indicating the direction of her onward journey, encouraging her to continue walking. “I thought, as I was the one to bully you into it, the least I could do would be to come here and give you this,” he explained as he handed over a styrofoam cup with a fancy logo that Hermione didn’t recognise that smelt amazing. “And to take the opportunity to warn you to _never_ drink the coffee from the canteen, especially in the morning. The food is alright, but the coffee is terrible.”

“I never took you for a java snob Kingsley, this is all very illuminating,” Hermione remarked as she took her first sip, delighted that the coffee tasted every bit as good as it smelled.

“You never heard it from me,” he said as he tapped the side of his nose, “the ladies down there would have my hide.”

Hermione laughed and fell into step with Kingsley until they reached the lifts. “May I escort you?” he asked politely, and Hermione was only too happy to agree.

“That would be wonderful.”

 -//-//-//-

When they exited the near groaning lift on the seventh floor, Hermione followed Kingsley through a rabbit warren of messy desks and file units until he came to an abrupt stop in front of a tatty looking door in the back corner that wasn’t particularly well illuminated. After a brisk knock, a muffled summons came from within, and Kingsley turned to give Hermione a reassuring smile before he opened the door and marched inside with his casual yet commanding demeanour set thoroughly in place.

“Finola,” he began kindly, and the witch sat behind the overburdened desk looked up with some surprise.

“Kingsley, I didn’t expect you.”

“I should imagine not,” Kingsley replied, waving his arm to encourage Hermione forward. “If you see my assistant, I was never here, but I wanted to bring down your new intern. Hermione Granger this is Fiona -”

“Finola Arista Bateson,” Hermione supplied gripping her now empty cup a little harder than she intended. “I read your paper advocating for the social benefits of free Wolfsbane distribution. It’s an honour.”

Miss Bateson looked quietly pleased before she stood and straightened her robes. Hermione tried to keep herself from fidgeting as the witch moved closer. She was, in a word, immaculate. Her soft blonde hair fell neatly to her shoulders, with a subtle sweeping wave at the front that looked as if it was natural. She wore minimal makeup, and her expression was both warm and cold all at once. Miss Bateson appeared reserved and not expressly friendly, and yet not unkind. Her eyebrows pinched, making her look assessing, but there were no hard lines around her mouth, no sneer. Hermione instantly wanted this witch to think well of her, even more than she had before she entered her office.

The Head of Department sat on the front of her desk and pushed her large, tortoiseshell framed glasses onto her head before placing her hands in the pockets of her cream, wide leg trousers. “Finola will do,” she began while openly regarding Hermione. “My mother was more… _floral_ in her name choices than I would have probably been. We are pleased to have you, Hermione.”

“Thank you… ah, Finola, I am pleased to be here.”

Finola gave her another slight smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I have read your Hogwarts transcript and can see how accomplished you are, I am sure you will receive many offers at the end of your schooling though Kingsley assures me that this is a particular passion of yours.”

“It is,” Hermione replied, getting the distinct impression she was being tested. “I am not yet decided on what I want to do after leaving education; however, I have always wanted to do some good, where I can.”

Whether Finola was pleased with her answer or not was a mystery, she merely looked over a document next to her for a moment before she folded her arms across her chest. “I wanted to warn you before you begin - as I tell everyone that comes to work within this department - this job is far from glamorous. I shouldn’t say as much in front of our excellent Minister here, but we are underfunded, understaffed, and lacking in buy-in for our policies from the Wizengamot.”

“All things we are trying to rectify,” Kingsley chimed in, and Finola tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“As to what you will be doing, most of the team concentrate on assigned projects and part of my role is to review what is coming in and decide what we can and can’t focus on. Matty, who you will meet shortly, helps with that. I hear you have a natural aptitude for research?”

“I have,” Hermione answered, forcing herself to do so without adding a qualifier.

“Excellent,” Finola responded crisply, standing from the edge of her desk and moving towards a haphazard stack of files on the end of it. “Today I want you to review existing legislation, familiarise yourself with the current landscape and what we are up against so you will be more useful in the next week.”

Hermione nodded, and Finola reached to press her fingers on the end of the desk, which must have sent a signal somewhere as a couple of moments later the still open office door was knocked on twice before a smiling face poked around it.  

“Matty, this is Hermione Granger she will be joining us,” Finola introduced, “could you show her around?”

The newly entered Matty nodded before stepping in and opening the door wider, inviting Hermione to exit before him.

“Minister while I have you,” Finola requested, and Kingsley mock sighed.

“Of course,” he replied, moving to sit in one of the batted looking armchairs. “Hermione, good luck.”

“Thank you,” she murmured before heading out of the door.

 -//-//-//-

As ‘Matty’ closed the office door behind them, Hermione felt her awkwardness returning; she suddenly started doubting all of her clothing choices and the ridiculous amount of materials she had brought in her bag and struggled to meet the eyes of the new person in front of her with any degree of confidence.

“So,” Matty began eyeing her kindly, either not noticing or ignoring her awkwardness, “let’s show you around.”

At first, Hermione was slightly taken aback by his American twang, but she stopped herself from asking about it, chiding herself that of course it made sense that the ministry would hire people internationally.

“Great,” she murmured and hiked her bag upon her shoulder.

“It will be over quickly,” Matty said with a grin before cupping his hand around his mouth and making a show of looking left and right, “there isn’t much to see.”

Hermione laughed and allowed him to take her bag when he offered, grateful that it wasn’t Finola showing her the ropes. She liked her new boss, but she was intimidated by her, and her nerves didn’t need that on top of her existing anxiety.  

Matty was by no means lying. As it turned out, the entire department seemed to comprise of the twenty or so desks that were lined up in front of Finola’s office, and many of the staff were not present as they were out on assignments. Hermione shook hands with the five or so witches and wizards that were remaining in the office and took heart in how happy they all seemed to meet her when Matty explained that she was the ‘extra pair of hands’ Finola had mentioned in the team meeting the previous week.

He took her to get another cup of coffee, from the small kitchenette behind a faux wall and Hermione asked about the skeleton crew manning the desks.

“Finola believes that to appreciate what it is we do fully, and to truly make a difference, we have to understand the creatures and beings that the legislation we enforce and adapt protects. In my first two years here, I was sent out often to meet delegates and build a name for myself with different clans.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six years,” Matty answered with a grin, “it’s not easy, but it’s what I always wanted to do so…” he finished with a shrug as they walked back into the bullpen.

Hermione listened attentively as Matty continued explaining some of the more tedious elements of office life, where to get her stationary and what time was best to take a lunch break and when he finished Hermione quietly revelled in the soft murmur of quills on parchment and interoffice memos flapping around. For all that the department was shabby and littered with ink stains, it awoke something in her, a dream that she had been working towards since she was little more than a child.  

“It’s so lovely,” she murmured, and Matty smiled indulgently at her.

“It’s not much, but it is home,” he said before shaking himself, “I just realised, what an idiot, I didn’t even introduce myself properly.” He extended his hand to her, “Matty Cooper, Muggle-born, American, Joker - in that order,” he finished as waved his hands like finger guns, making Hermione laugh. She liked him instantly, there was something familiar in his half untucked shirt and ruffled hair, even though he was from an entirely different continent to her. He showed Hermione to her designated cubicle and passed over the tome of current legislation, explaining the indexing system before he ran off to complete a report, promising he would check on her later.

Hermione pulled off her coat and let her bag hit the floor before she pulled the considerable file towards herself; _it was time to do what she did best._

 -//-//-//-

Hermione hadn’t expected her day to be fascinating, she had doubted life as an intern would mean access to the most exciting work, but she had been pleasantly surprised while leafing through the legislature archives. While the laws themselves were often written in such antiquated speech that they were almost unintelligible, and in such demeaning terms to make her blood boil, she noted quickly that her reading material - in most cases - comprised of original copies, and as such had all of the argued terms and previously suggested amendments notarised within their pages. It was engrossing and gave considerable insight into not only the legal process within the wizarding world but also the difficulties the department was facing with regard to change. Finola had been right; the Wizengamot was not looking to make their lives easier.

As she turned the next page over and her eyes skimmed the prefacing section notes on Merpeople and their status in law she was interrupted by a large hand falling on her shoulder.  

“Come on, Granger,” Matty said, using his grip to pull her away from the desk, “time to go.”

He had his coat on she realised, and a glance over to the charmed window showed that somehow it had got to the end of the day without her noticing.

Hermione glanced back to her half-completed file and grimaced. “But I’ve not-”

“You’ve not moved for six hours,” Matty interrupted, “no one was expecting you to finish all of that today. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’ve stayed awake. In any case, an internship is about more than just the work, it’s about working life, and one of the most important things you learn about office life is that when the boss declares it’s time for the pub you get your coat.”

Hermione spied Finola over Matty’s shoulder, locking the door to her office as she shouted over to the back of the room to ‘rally the troops’, and nearly fell over him in her haste to not be left behind.

* * *

Hermione had happily chatted with Matty the whole way to the departments preferred pub, not paying much attention to where she was going after they took a side street off Diagon Alley. ‘The Sherlock Holmes Tavern’ was loud, cramped and decidedly Muggle. She raised an eyebrow at Matty who merely shrugged. “A favourite with the team, Finola likes to avoid other ministry types when she is out of the office.”

Hermione pulled off her coat and set about zigzagging her way through the Monday night drinkers. “Understood.”

-//-//-//-

Hermione spent most of the evening chatting to a wizard named Howard, who she imagined was around the same age as Arthur Weasley. He had been working in the ministry for most of his career, in many different departments, and while he was not the most dynamic man she had ever met, beneath his slightly bumbling delivery, she found him to be well informed with a very dry sense of humour. He also asked her about helping out with some research he was completing on house elves the next day, which got her genial agreement.

After a couple of hours, Hermione could feel the fizz that she had been handed warm her chest and fuzz her brain, and despite the good time she was having she decided it was best to call it a night and sought out Finola and Matty who were standing propped up against the bar.

“I’m going to head off,” she said, having to shout over the rowdy crowd making orders, “thank you for everything today.”

Finola emptied the remaining dregs from the latest bottle of prosecco into her glass, “A wise choice.”

“I’m looking forward to being back tomorrow!” Hermione said excitedly as she dove into the pile they had made of their belongings, smiling in thanks when Matty stepped over to help her into her jacket.

“Would you like me to walk you?” he offered but Hermione shook her head, she was looking forward to decompressing after her first day.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she replied, “thank you, though.”

Hermione left the pub and glanced around to get her bearings, stepping carefully over the cobbles in her new shoes until she reached the bright lights of the main street. In spite of the late hour, or the way her feet pinched or how tired she felt she was smiling. She couldn’t believe that she had done it, she had done her first day, and it wasn’t horrible, and even the broader team seemed to like her. She never fitted in, not at first, not ever, it was likely the best first impression she had ever made.

Hermione was looking forward to closing her front door and having a cup of tea, hopefully catching Pansy before she went to bed so she could reassure her friend that she was fine. She had left in a bit of a tizzy that morning, wound up and convinced she was going to fail, for once it would be lovely to admit - out loud no less - just how wrong she had been.

It was as if the universe knew she was elated beyond reason as it was at that precise moment, as she turned a corner that there, regarding a dimming shop window on the other side of Diagon Alley, was Regulus Black.

Hermione’s feet reacted first as she came to a complete standstill as her brain raced to catch up and decide what to do. Her initial impulse was to ignore him completely, and it was probably what she would have done without the two glasses of bubbles and general happiness coursing through her system. Instead, a paltry greeting fell through her lips unchecked.

“Regulus?”

His dark figure span and faced her, chasing away the little prayer Hermione had been clutching - that she had been mistaken - that it might have been some other tall, dark, dangerous, impossibly chiselled wizard. No such luck.  

His shoulders seemed to tense, just the slightest of fractions before he was facing her, both of them remaining stuck still, ten feet apart. If it had been daytime, they would have had a river of people flowing between them, masking all of the reactions on their faces, but it was dark, and there was no one. No one but them.

“Miss Granger,” Regulus replied eventually, and Hermione was struck by the impression he was holding himself back from bowing which would have made her laugh if it hadn’t made her wonder if he had stopped himself to avoid offending her sensibilities, or because he didn’t think she was worth it.

She didn’t know what to do, walking away seemed rude, and she knew she didn’t have the self-possession to do so in a way that would make her look unaffected and aloof. The oppressive silence and distance continued, and Hermione pulled her coat around her chest tighter, as her brain wired.

“Is everything…” Regulus finally said before he paused and changed tack. “Are you well?”

Hermione hated him for a moment, a sharp barb of white-hot fury lanced through her core so unexpectedly it was all she could do to hold in a gasp. She hadn’t seen him since he demanded to walk her back to the castle after his insisting she helped him with a task that hadn’t allowed her to sleep for a week. Guilt, the kind that she had suppressed enough to carry on after the war had leaked back to the front of her mind as she had regarded Professor Snape’s portrait and Regulus hadn’t even sent a bloody note.

“Yes, I am well,” she replied, biting back her almost automatic thank you.

His head tilted as he regarded her and Hermione imagined her static conversation was something of a surprise. She was never one for holding a thought in her head, especially with the wizard in front of her. He made her trip over herself and speak even more than was standard for her.

“That’s good,” he replied stiffly and adjusted his stance, straightening his legs a little. “You look… different.”

Hermione looked down at herself, regarding her medium height heels and a dark blue dress covered by a military-esque coat with large brass buttons. “Not in school uniform I suppose,” she murmured, and Regulus took a step forward.

“That would be it,” he replied though he didn’t seem to mean it.

Hermione’s jangled nerves had lasted as long as they could, and grace or no grace she knew she needed to exit. So much of their interactions up to this point had been on his terms, and while it was hardly Regulus’ fault that they had bumped into each other, Hermione didn’t want to wait until he retook control.  

“Well, nice seeing you,” she said weakly, “I should be-”

“Are you heading somewhere?” Regulus interrupted, taking another step across the width of the empty street. “I could take you-”

“It’s fine,” Hermione said quickly, “I wouldn’t want to impose on you, no doubt you have many things of your own to attend to.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at Regulus’ lips, and Hermione tried to pretend that the effect wasn’t devastating. Damn him.

“You couldn’t impose Miss Granger,” he said in a low voice before he looked around the deserted alley. “I wanted to come and speak to you. I did wonder if you may have-”

Though whatever topic Regulus had planned was cut off.

“Hermione? What are you still doing out here? It’s getting late.”

Finola’s heels clicked over the uneven cobbles as she walked across to Hermione’s side and eyed Regulus warily for a moment. “Come on,” she instructed softly, “I’ll walk with you to the Leaky Cauldron, you can get the Floo from there. It’s not safe out at night.”

Hermione looked over her new bosses shoulder and locked eyes with an impassive-looking Regulus. There was a tension between them, a different kind than what had been there before and Hermione didn’t have a name for it.

Keeping her unspoken promise to herself not to apologise during their latest surprise encounter, she raised a hand and gave him a slight wave. “Goodbye, Regulus,” she said as Finola began walking away, “good luck with the move.”

If Regulus was shocked by her good information he didn’t show it, he didn’t show much of anything. He regarded her quietly for a moment before he replied.

“Goodbye, Hermione.”

She couldn’t remember if it was the first time he had used her given name. Then he was gone.

 -//-//-//-

Hermione almost had to skip to catch up with Finola, though she wasn’t hard to miss in her dark pink cloak. When she finally fell into step behind her, Miss Bateson looked down and shook her head, though she seemed faintly amused. “And here I thought I would be restricted to teaching you about the potential perils of life in the ministry.”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione asked bemusedly.

Finola sighed, “Hermione, there is nothing on this earth more dangerous than a young boy as attractive as that, especially when they are looking at you the way he was.”

Hermione didn’t make a reply, mainly as she didn’t know what to say. She hoped Pansy was still up; there was going to be a lot for her to fill her in on from the day. Hopefully, her friend would be able to help her interpret what the hell Regulus had been about.

Finola glanced back behind them at the now empty alley, and her eyebrows pinched. “Hungry that’s what I would have called it, the expression on his face,” she mused. “Say, he’s not a vampire, is he? Only an in with a London based representative would be advantageous for a bill we are passing just now.”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, unsure whether or not she should laugh until it became clear that Finola was in no way joking. “No,” she replied once she regained her voice, “not a vampire, just dark and elusive is all.”

“Ah, well,” Finola sighed, “you can’t win them all.”

No, Hermione thought, _you really can’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancasts: Finola Arista Bateson - Gillian Anderson // Matty Cooper - Andy Samberg


	12. Chapter 12

Regulus idly ran a hand down the front of his dark blue trench coat before turning towards the appropriate cobbled street. He was not in the best mood, a fact that all of the many passers-by would have been able to discern from his sharp expression and no-nonsense walk. He would have been a touch happier if the day had been colder; generally Regulus preferred wearing heavier garments. He felt smarter in cloaks rather than jackets, they made him feel more formal, and as a direct result more confident. A small voice in the back of his mind had questioned his reasoning, suggesting that the preference was an unwelcome hangover from his Death Eater days, which only made him more maudlin.

Regulus glanced up to check the street signs on the unfamiliar road only to find he had gone too far. Cursing under his breath, he turned back, unsettling a group of pigeons who took off with a dirty flutter of wings that he wholly ignored. His mother would have called such a thing a bad omen, Regulus didn’t have much patience for such things, but on this occasion, she would have been wholly right, it was highly likely that his errand would finish in tragedy, of a kind at least.

He was on his way to the ministry, which, given his life over the last few months, was nothing unusual. However, what was decidedly out of the ordinary was that the regular entrance - the _dignified_ telephone box - was closed. ‘Shut for Essential Maintenance’, or so the lopsided sign had said. Regulus had been rerooted to Whitehall by an ancient looking wizard with the broadest Irish accent he had ever heard. He’d had to lean in twice and ask the man to repeat what he said, and even now he hoped to Merlin he was bloody wrong about what was to come.

It could have been his way out he realised, it was enough of a reason to sack off the ’fool’s errand he was sending himself on, but Regulus - for some unfathomable reason - persisted.

As Regulus turned another corner, he finally found what he was looking for. Down a dirty looking side street, there was a line of magical folk moving quickly into what was marked as ‘Public Toilets’. Regulus swallowed down the stab of disgust that emerged when his worst fears were realised and cut through the meandering Muggles that were no doubt under the effects of a substantial line of Repelling Charms set at the entrance to the street.

He joined the back of the queue, and when the man in front of him turned and politely raised his hat, he nodded his head in acknowledgement. _There, he could be civil, seemingly never when it mattered, but still._

The line crept forward slowly, but Regulus was far from impatient to either get to the front or his final destination. The reason he had hung this entire visit on was flimsy at best, and he was filled with a deep suspicion that if he couldn’t convince himself of his motives he almost no chance of convincing _her_.

All too soon the graffiti besmirched cubicle door swung closed behind him with a squeak of rusty hinges and Regulus felt his lip curl into a sneer as he regarded the far from sanitary toilet bowl. _Had the entire world gone stark raving mad since his almost death?_ From nowhere, the image of his father being told he had to enter this way filled his mind, and Regulus had to almost swallow his hand to keep himself from laughing out loud. Orion Black would have killed on the spot at the very mention of such a thing.

Regulus peered over the edge of the seat like a child who had been presented with a plate full of greens before raising his eyes to the heavens - or in this case to the poorly painted, and somehow chewing gum caked, ceiling of a public restroom - and placed his feet one by one into the water. Regulus shuddered. He was sure that someone, somewhere, would have found the very idea of this hilarious. Sirius probably. He was disgusted.

One look at the flusher hanging from the cistern made him lament the fact he hadn’t brought gloves, but he hesitated less this time, already worried about what the water was doing to his shoes. He held his breath, shut his eyes and pulled.

-//-//-//-

Regulus joined the masses heading towards the green-tinged atrium, and after several hesitant steps, he was pleased to discover that there was no hideous squelching sound when he moved, his feet were bone dry. _Maybe the ministry could do something right every now and again?_

He made little eye contact as he stalked towards the lifts, not many were aware of his return to the land of the living, and so far the minister seemed to be dragging his feet over the final documents that would give him full legal status. Regulus had been granted an audience with Kingsley Shacklebolt for a weeks time and had reluctantly conceded that it was probably for the best that he kept his head down until then.

Regulus noticed a few people that he had seen on his numerous visits, and he gave them the smallest form of acknowledgement he could before continuing on his way. For once, he did not need to sign in. Well, strictly speaking, everyone _should_ sign in, but he had never been _everyone_ a day in his life.

He stopped at the lifts and quickly withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket, reconfirming the floor that he needed. Regulus was sure he had it committed to memory by now, but he was feeling more unsettled than usual, and the ritual that had begun that morning of pulling out the paper square and seeing her name next to a role and floor number calmed him. For once, he was not there to meet with _another_ of the red tape wilding jobsworths that had made his life miserably dull. Everyone he had encountered had sought to make his life difficult with their unreserved exploitation of their tiny bit of power.

Today he had a very different quarry.

The lift to the right of him dinged, and Regulus stepped back to allow an elderly witch to enter before him, gaining him a pat on the arm and a warm smile, before he slid in towards the back and pressed the required button.

Regulus had expressed his desire to head to the ministry that morning over the breakfast table at the manor. Draco was once again absent, and Narcissa had been fretting. He wasn’t sure why he had said anything to her at all about his planned visit, maybe it was to fill the silence, perhaps it was to divert her attention from her son’s continuing decline. Whatever his reason, it had earned him a raised eyebrow that Regulus had done his best to ignore, even when her mouth quirked into a knowing smile.

Regulus unconsciously ran a hand through his floppy hair as the lift door opened and a cloud of brightly coloured memos flew in. He had no way of knowing for sure if Hermione would be in her department that morning, but he had decided against sending an owl ahead. Regulus had a knowing feeling in his gut that she might have taken the option to ignore it or to reply telling him to bugger off. While he had already barged into her home during their short acquiesce, at that time she hadn’t sent a letter expressly forbidding it.

The lift opened again, and everyone shifted to allow a swell of loud ministry workers to board. Regulus pulled on the ends of sleeves and debated taking off his mac. It was cold enough inside to justify wearing it, and he had gone without a tailored coat underneath. He didn’t feel comfortable meeting Hermione in his shirt sleeves, and given his appearance to her up to now, if he did so she would likely think he had left the house in some urgency, possibly to impart bad news or… _No_ , he said to himself, shutting up his internal rambling, the mac would stay.

Regulus’ head fell back as he ground his teeth to gain some composure. He needed to get himself under control lest he ended up the same way as he had after their last meeting, _frustrated and confused_. Bumping into Hermione had been an unmitigated disaster, and he had been entirely unprepared for it. The previous time Regulus had laid eyes on her, Hermione had been walking through the Hogwarts gates after he had _insisted_ on walking her back to school. He had made to leave as the clanging metal rang out behind her, but unbeknownst to Hermione, Regulus had turned back as she continued down the path, stepping to the right and lurking by the wall until her bouncing curls had entirely disappeared from view.

After the day at Spinner’s End, he had resolved himself to spending more time with her and had thought about inviting her to the manor until he had his accommodation. He had thought it was more appropriate that she come there, as they would have a chaperone. That was until Draco had told him what had transpired there, that and the article in the prophet had put a damper on his plans. He was beginning to realise that - rather arrogantly - he had assumed he would have more time, what with Hermione still being at school and planning to live with another witch come the end of the term. As they had stood only feet apart in Diagon Alley, Regulus had watched her face with rapt attention. Hermione had been flustered, yes, but not like she had been on seeing him before. Not even when he had emerged in her bedroom - bloody, and soaked - had she looked at him like she wished he wasn’t there. But she had, in the alley, she had looked uncomfortable, unsure and desperate to flee. Regulus had realised he would rather suffer _days_ of her prickly, passionate anger than a single moment of her indifference.

Then, before he could say anything of import or otherwise, Hermione was swept away. Regulus had been halfway through a plan to ask to escort her home and then, much more politely than his last time, to ask to come in and talk, maybe to have a drink. Once they were settled, he could have tried to explain a few things. Black’s do not explain, his ’mother’s voice chimed in his mind, and Regulus shut his eyes. The teachings of Walburga Black would be spectacularly unhelpful to him today.

Finally, the lift rang out in a decidedly too chipper tone and announced his required floor. Regulus glided through the mass of assembled bodies and stepped into the much colder air of the corridor, checking the signage above his head before continuing on his way.

He had never got the chance to act on his hastily cobbled together plan. Regulus had wanted to interrupt the older witch that had appeared at Hermione’s side, he had wanted to _insist_ \- in his most dominant tone - that Hermione was _exceptionally_ safe with him, maybe not _from him_ , but with him certainly. But he had realised Hermione wouldn’t have welcomed his assumption. In any case, Regulus decided on balance that he could not be too angry with Hermione’s would be saviour. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that he recognised Finola, the stern looking blonde had been a couple of years above him at school. In the end, it had been a hint, a taste, enough to excite him for the hunt.

When serving the Dark Lord, Regulus’ primary role - apart from being the Pureblood poster boy for the forces of darkness - was as a tracker. Not in the same sense as Scabior or one of the so-called band of ‘Snatchers’ had been, no, his skills, even if he did say so himself, were a great deal more refined than that. To Regulus’ estimation, anyone could find something, or someone, given all the details of who or what the were. Regulus was called in when all they had to go on was a sea of blank space and hypothesis. He excelled at research, at thinking outside of the box and producing results.

Not every skill he had honed under the servitude of the Mark had been undividedly useless.

Regulus had eventually returned to the manor after his all too brief encounter with Hermione and directed a few subtle words of inquiry in Draco’s ear. It hadn’t taken long at all to uncover that she was undertaking an internship. Draco had heard it from Blaise, who had heard it from Theo, who’d had it in a letter from Pansy.

He knew that he needed to act quicker this time and not only was time of the essence, but the circumstances were also in his favour. Face to face was the only way forward, and he couldn’t have guaranteed that McGonagall would grant an audience with Hermione after her return to school. He would have said that _Black’s didn’t need luck_ , but he was grateful for the timing, even if he would never have admitted so out loud.

Regulus’ feet slowed as he reached a dingy, bleak corner of the floor, with flat lighting and mismatched furniture that looked as if it had been on the front lines in the last war, and possibly the first before that. Bashed wooden doors were hanging off cupboards at awkward angles, and the carpet encouraged him to establish his previous pace less he ended up stuck to it.

In the veritable sea of beige mediocrity, it didn’t take long to find her; she stuck out against the tedious backdrop harshly — an uncovered gem against the polished glass. There were few occupied desks in the small department, and as if guided by the oldest magic, as Regulus moved to avoid and an interloping herd of fluttering memos, Hermione stretched back from a seat two rows in front of him, reaching her slim arms above her head and rolling her neck from side to side.

Regulus approached her quietly, having not planned this far ahead. Logic and the strict teaching of manners told him to seek out her head of department and request a moment of Hermione’s time. Given the look Finola had given him in the alley, he decided against it.

A moment later, he was at the side of her as she worked, bent over a stack of parchments. Regulus, acting on instinct, made to lean casually against the file cabinet next to her, but one look at the questionable grease stains lining its surface and he reconsidered.

Hermione didn’t react to him being there at all, which gave him a couple of extra moments. He thought about speaking to her more softly than he had before, asking about her, enquiring if she was well, how her work was going. As his mind whirred, he glanced more carefully over her shoulder and saw what she was working on - furious notes in various inks, all related to a new addendum on The House Elf Bill.

“This is you, a voice for the voiceless?” he snarked. _Well, it was not exactly what he had planned, but it was done now so he would have to make the best of it._

Hermione stilled for a moment, her fingers gripping her neat quill so tightly that her knuckles whitened, but when she turned around, her eyes were devoid of any reaction. “Do they teach you such a scornful tone at home?” she inquired with icy politeness and Regulus tilted his head. It was an almost bow, the kind he always gave her when they conversed. Manners dictated that she be appropriately greeted, but he knew Hermione well enough to predict that on a good day a formal bow would be met with sarcasm, and on a bad day, like that day, it could well be met with hexes.

“Yes, actually,” Regulus replied crisply and shook off the earlier thought that had darted through his mind, prompting him to look for a chair. He was rather enjoying seeing her look up at him. Her wide brown eyes were pinched in displeasure, and her sharp tongue was pressed against the side of her mouth - no doubt in an attempt to stop herself from taking him down a peg or three.

“To what,” she began, fighting to keep her voice steady, “do I owe the pleasure?”

He smirked. “The _pleasure_ is all mine, Miss Granger.”

Hermione dramatically rolled her eyes and relief washed over him. He was on much better footing now. “I wanted to speak to you about something, about a few things actually,” he explained vaguely.

“Yes?” Hermione pressed, feigning indifference even as she turned her chair to face him better.

“We did not get a chance to speak properly the other night; you seemed in a hurry.” His words were semi accusing in tone, but if Hermione noticed she wasn’t rising to it.

She shrugged. Not an artful, coy little lift of her shoulders with an accompanying affected sigh. She lifted her shoulders - swathed in a too big robe that was almost up to her ears as she smiled unaffectedly.

“If it was urgent you could have sought me out at Hogwarts, where I was for weeks after we met the time before” she replied. Her words were soft but there was a hint of challenge in the set of her mouth, it was enough to take Regulus off the defensive for once in his life and drop his gaze, and his voice, as he answered her charges.

“I could have done,” he agreed. “I… wasn’t sure where to start-”

“Where to start with what?” she interrupted, tucking her slim arms around her chest and glaring at him. “I honestly don’t see what could have been…”

She carried on talking, Regulus assumed she had anyway as her lips continued to move, but he didn’t hear her. As she had taken her defensive stance, her crossed arms had pushed the fabric of her sleeve up, not much, but enough. He couldn’t see all of it, but he didn’t need to, he knew what was there. The edge of a single crudely made letter poked out at him and dried his mouth.

“Your torture,” he said before he could stop himself and Hermione blanched. Her skin was even more washed out than the hideous lighting had already affected. Regulus scrambled for something to say, but for the second time that week he just wasn’t quick enough.

“Everything okay?” an unfamiliar voice broke in, and Regulus’ head whipped up to regard the wizard who had crashed over to where they were standing and sunk into a crouch by Hermione’s feet, eyeing her with concern.

“Yes, Matty,” Hermione replied quietly, her voice not quite steady, but her tone was warm, too warm by half.

“Everything’s fine,” she affirmed again, with more conviction this time and the boy, Matty - _whatever kind of name that was_ \- grinned at her as if she had told him some wonderful anecdote before he slapped her on the arm and stood back to full height.

Regulus was rather pleased to note that _Matty_ was not as tall as he was, though he appeared older. That said the wizard certainly ’hadn’t used his additional time on the earth to practice grooming. He was slovenly in the extreme, his shirt was untucked, and his hair made Potter’s look neat in comparison. Regulus regarded the man’s large eyes behind his style-less glasses and prickled when he realised that the boy, well, man he supposed, ’hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge him.

“You’re sure?” Matty pressed, laying a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and Regulus did all he could not to hex the American’s fingers. His own fingers reached for his wand, but he managed not to use it, _just._

“I’m sure,” Hermione agreed as the colour began to return to her cheeks and _finally_ the boy seemed satisfied.

“Well, give me a shout, yeah? You still okay to go through that bill proposal this afternoon?”

They rattled off a few more office particulars until Regulus was left with the pleasure of glaring metaphorical daggers into the interlopers back. Though his fun was interrupted as Hermione turned back to him with a sigh.

“I don’t want to talk about it… that… now,” she said quietly, and Regulus eyed her with honest regret.

“I… I ’shouldn’t have raised it, this is not the place,” he apologised.

“No, ’it’s not.”

Silence fell between them until Regulus titled his head in the direction _Matty_ had left in. “You didn’t introduce me,” he observed, and Hermione looked to where he had indicated, at Matty, who was apparently fighting with a file cabinet and losing.

“I didn’t,” she replied vaguely, meeting his gaze.

“Why?” Regulus pressed, inching closer until he all but loomed over her, forcing her head back as she continued to meet his gaze boldly.

“I had no idea what to call you,” she replied dismissively.

“You have somehow forgotten my name? How wounding to learn that I have made such little impression on you.”

The apples of Hermione’s cheeks pinked, but her skin did not give into a full blush. Regulus, far from being irritated by her restraint, found himself strangely proud of her for it.

“You know what I meant,” she breathed out, and Regulus lowered his head till her’s dropped forward again.

“I do,” he confessed, “just as you know _exactly_ who and what I am to you, Miss Granger.”

The tense atmosphere between them ratcheted to such a degree that Regulus was almost sure it had physically manifested. Being that close to Hermione - it was as if a million tiny threads had woven around her, twisting over her limbs and middle until they stretched out to him and bound his form in turn. He was confident that this was the most emotion this dingy corner of the ministry had ever seen and the single tiny fragment of his mind that wasn’t focused solely on Hermione’s deepening breathing hoped that _Matty_ was watching.

Regulus’ hands, which had been patiently waiting by his sides for further instruction, shook when Hermione’s eyes fell, just for a moment, down his face and stopped at his mouth. Her tongue poked out, to wet her parched lips and his fingers spasmed in response, aching to hungrily grip into the front of her robes and pull her up against him.

There was a bang.

A short, sharp, clapping bang, as if a miniature thunderclap had occurred right next to him.

Regulus gasped as if he were coming up for air, and took a step away from Hermione, who had slumped down into her chair and twisted to face the noise.

Kreacher stood in the centre of the decaying office, looking decidedly at home holding what appeared to be a ceramic version of a takeaway cup containing tea.

“Really?” Regulus asked, staring at his elf in total bafflement.

Kreacher was, as usual, wholly unaffected by his tone. “The miss,” he began, unnecessarily pointing at a sheepish looking Hermione, “cannot be drinking that stuff downstairs.” Kreacher made a face which concretely communicated his feelings on the beverage choices available in the canteen and walked over to Hermione - who seemed to have recovered herself from their earlier moment - handing the cup to her as she softly thanked him for his kind attention.

“What does your bill say about _borrowing_ an elf?” he gripped, but Hermione turned her back on him, rooting through her under desk draws.

“That it wholly depends on whether they _want_ to be borrowed,” she replied.

Kreacher looked back at him as Hermione busied herself adding the sugar she had found, and the elf made a nudging motion, shooing his arms at Regulus and pointing his head in the witch’s direction. Not for the first time since he had been dragged into the future, Regulus wondered if drowning would have been less painful than the indignities he had allowed himself to suffer since landing in the little witch’s bedroom.

“Miss Granger, could I request your company for the five minutes you will take to drink that tea?” he asked formally, and Kreacher grinned brightly before disappearing with a far less dramatic noise.

-//-//-//-

The short journey to the canteen was made in relative silence, apart from the essentials necessary to maintain politeness. Regulus directed them to a small table near the back of the shabby break out space and Hermione took the seat opposite, purposely ignoring the chair he had pulled out for her use. Regulus recovered quickly, pulling the chair out further before sitting down as Hermione busied herself with wrapping her slender fingers around the cup she had been presented. Regulus glumly noted that Kreacher had not been back to take _his order_.

He watched Hermione cautiously; she had barely said a word since the elf had disappeared, and he had no idea how expressive her eyes were as he was wholly unable to catch her gaze. In stark contrast to how he had felt just that morning, Regulus was not unhappy about her aversion. Hermione’s eyes were fixed on the table as she fiddled anxiously with a sugar packet, but far from indifferent her actions seemed… shy, perhaps bashful.

“Kreacher is quite taken with you,” he said finally after accepting the cup he had purchased from the matronly witch that had bustled over to their table. The women stared disdainfully at Hermione’s cup until his companion looked even more uncomfortable and Regulus intervened, paying the woman an exorbitant tip and praising her until she waddled away.

“Is he really?” Hermione replied, seemingly without interest.

“I believe so; he talks about you constantly.”

Regulus took a sip of the coffee and couldn’t help but grimace. Hermione’s lips quirked as she regarded him from across the table and Regulus pushed the coffee cup away from him, reasoning that it was probably too early in the game to ask to share her tea. Even though he was sure it was perfect — bloody Kreacher.

“I imagine that must be terribly irritating for you,” Hermione said eventually, and she picked up her cup with a knowing smirk, grinning in satisfaction as she took her first sip of the cooling beverage.

“I bare it the best I can, Miss Granger.”

She muttered something under her breath, but whatever it was she didn’t seem to be in the mood to repeat it. The serving witch wandered past again, offering them some cakes and scones. Regulus asked Hermione if she would like one, but she declined, the witch moved away again, and they were left in silence.

Regulus was reminded of sitting at a similar table when meeting with Potter and Weasley, that encounter had also been filled with uncomfortable silences and sub-par beverages, but that was where the similarities ended. Sitting across from Hermione, for better or for worse, he cared about what she thought, whether she believed that or not.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked eventually and Regulus sat forward, resting his arms on the end of the table and intertwining his fingers.

“A few things, I have made some decisions over the last few weeks. I’ve begun the necessary process to reinstate Sirius; I thought I might as well make some use of my required repeated trips to the ministry and get that done at the same time. One more document and he is officially back on the tapestry.”

 _As if that mattered to anyone_ , he thought to himself. The tapestry had become the living embodiment of the House of Black while he was in his own time. Sirius and Andromeda being blasted off had been all it had taken to solidify the house stance on them. In many ways, his actions now were too little too late, but with nothing else available to him, it was all he could offer his fallen brother.

Hermione continued sipping without response, though she was clearly listening, she wasn’t rude enough to pretend to ignore him while they were sat at the same table, but she was nowhere near as attentive as he had seen her before.

“I am opening up one of the other houses from the Black estate, Domus Vert, ’it’s a townhouse just outside of London. We used to stay there sometimes as children…”

“Why are you telling me this?” Hermione interrupted, and Regulus silently replied that it was a bloody good question and one that he didn’t have a ready answer for.

“I thought you would like to know.”

“I already did; this is what happens when you don’t speak to someone for long periods, your news gets passed on by other people.”

Regulus sighed. Hermione really was very obvious with her emotions, and too kind with her words. A girl of the type that he had grown up with would have waited him out _for years_ before showing how irritated she was, and why.

“What about the monument?” she asked suddenly, derailing his thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

“Weren’t you going to do something to memorialise him? Sirius?” at his questioning look, she clarified, “Harry mentioned it.”

Regulus could imagine Potter and Weasley running off to Hermione to complain to her as if they were no more than errant school children.

“No doubt he told you how _thrilled_ he was,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Something like that,” she confirmed with a slight laugh that made Regulus hope she had thawed a touch more.

“I have a favour to ask,” he said as he glanced the clock above her head. He had already taken so much of her time and though his pieced together reason for seeing her had been flimsy since its inception the longer he spent with her, the more it seemed like a good idea.

“Another one?” Hermione asked with a raised brow, and Regulus’ fingers twitched on the table in front of him.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I appreciate that the balance so far has been somewhat off.”

“Somewhat? You don’t say.”

“Fine,” Regulus acceded, “it has been _entirely_ in my favour.”

Hermione snorted in response, and Regulus sat forward in his seat until she met his gaze. “Please do tell me, Miss Granger, whenever you have _anything_ you want, anything that I can give you freely, and I will redress that balance.”

Her eyes widened, and Regulus updated the running tally he was keeping in his mind. He had played his hand well overall - at least that day - but as Hermione delicately lifted her mug to her lips, he knew he would fail before all of the pieces had fallen, and he would undoubtedly be happy in his surrender.

“Would you have tea with Draco?”

Hermione sputtered on the last of her tea and clutched at her chest until her coughing subsided. Regulus debated getting up to pat her on the back, but in these halls, he had no idea who could happen upon them. He doubted Kingsley Shacklebolt would think to ask questions if he saw him thumping the back of Hermione Granger, even if his intentions were innocent. He’d be dead.

“I’m sorry?” she said eventually, her voice still a little croaky and Regulus eyed her thoughtfully.

“Tea, with my cousin,” he repeated.

“Are you setting me up on a date?” she asked astonished before looking entirely too thoughtful. “I’m not sure Malfoy would appreciate your efforts if that were the case.”

Regulus’ stared at Hermione so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if the close by diners suspected he was performing Legilimency. “No, Hermione,” he bit out as his voice dropped to a low growl, “I am not _setting you up_ with another wizard in any shape or form, is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she answered lightly before slumping back in her chair and raising a hand to her forehead. He got the impression that had he not been there she would have dropped her head onto the table. It was probably for the best; Regulus did not trust himself not to sink his hands into her warm curls.

“Then, why?”

Regulus was unsure how much to divulge; it needed to be enough to justify his request without betraying a family confidence that he considered sacrosanct. “I believe he would like to speak to you; it may help with some of the issues he has been facing, following the war.”

Hermione nodded once before looking into the middle distance, apparently weighing her options. Eventually, she straightened and fiddled with the empty cup in front of her. “I’ll think about it.”

Regulus blew out a breath, “Thank you.”

Peace fell between them as they started to chat more conversationally. It wasn’t cordial - they were too careful of each other for that - and it assuredly wasn’t sexually charged, but neither was it the blankness he had seen in her face in Diagon Alley or the frosty greeting upstairs. Regulus wanted to ask about her torture and why she hadn’t told him. He wanted to ask why she hadn’t contacted him; she could have done so if she wished to, just as much as he could have reached out to her. Most of all, he wanted to ask if she had seen the article in the prophet. But he didn’t ask any of those things. He kept all of his questions to himself and talked to her about stupid, banal, unimportant matters until her shoulders sagged and she leant more forward across the table until she began to relax in his company again.  

“Regulus Black, as I live and breath, I am so sorry to interrupt.”

Pansy Parkinson sauntered over to their table, preceded by the clatter of sky-high heels. Her standard glossy bob was set into bold waves, and she stood with her hands on her hips in a way that hid the little blonde Lovegood girl who had skipped along after her.

Regulus tilted his head to regard her harsh features - made even more pronounced by her unhappy expression. “Why do I get the impression that you do not entirely mean that, Miss Parkinson?”

“Because she ’doesn’t,” Lovegood, _Luna_ , interjected, seemingly without malice. The ethereal girl slipped forward and pulled on a strand of Hermione’s hair affectionately.

Hermione’s entire face lit up when the girls approached as if she had been hit with a Cheering Charm. Regulus enjoyed watching her, though not the tinge of jealousy that tampered down his pleasure.

“Anyway,” Pansy said, breaking up Luna and Hermione’s happy gadding, “we are taking Miss Granger for lunch.” She turned away from him to look at Hermione. “We’ve just come from your office, and the _lovely_ young American man up there told us you had been _stolen away_ , we promised to return you to him after lunch.”

Regulus considered that Pansy’s tactic would have been more affecting if Hermione hadn’t looked bemused, but who said anything about logic mattering in such situations. He was suddenly struck by the notion that if the roles had been reversed, and the picture in the prophet had been Hermione and some simpering wizard he would have burnt down the publications office. This time when doing something so utterly reckless, governed by his emotions, he wouldn’t have left a sarcastic note confessing to it.

With little choice left, Regulus trailed after the gaggle of witches as they left the canteen and walked back into the central corridor. With them walking three abreast - and Pansy sinking her claws into Hermione’s arm to move her in between the other two - Regulus was forced to step behind, something that infuriated him but did give him a front-row seat a moment later when Weasley came skidding to a stop in the corridor and almost collided into the rabble.

“Hermione, what are you…”

For a moment Regulus thought the youngest Weasley male had seen him, given his reddened face and narrowed eyes, but the boy had, in fact, caught sight of another Slytherin, and this one seemed to antagonise him more than Regulus could ever hope to.

“Parkinson,” he gritted out coldly.

“Weasley,” she replied with equal disdain.

“I’ll see you later, Hermione,” Weasley grunted before storming off in the other direction.

Regulus swept forward, entirely too happy with himself. “Nothing like sexual tension is there Miss Parkinson?” he uttered right next to her ear before he turned to say goodbye to the others.

“Miss Granger, thank you for your time today. I look forward to hearing from you with your decision.”


	13. Chapter 13

For reasons that Hermione had neither the time or the inclination to uncover, Pansy had left their choice of restaurant that afternoon to Luna. A year ago, she might have believed that it was merely a friendly gesture towards the returning girl, but now Hermione knew better. Pansy may have been capable of more kindness than she would have ever thought possible, but restaurants were an area of particular interest to her Slytherin friend, and Pansy had long ago declared everyone else ‘useless’ at picking a good one. In any case, that was how the trio ended up sipping tea in a lounge style room that looked as if the resurrected spirit of Marie Antoinette had decorated it. It gave Hermione some amusement to note that Pansy seemed the most out of place in such an elaborate environment. Luna didn’t wholly fit anywhere, except her own home, or in some wilderness, and Hermione didn’t have the style to look as if she had a particular place she should have been. Pansy, on the other hand, with the clean lines of her hair, makeup and expensive coat looked ridiculous sat amongst the heavily embroidered cushions in the pale pastel salon.

The small table they had been placed at was scattered with the remains of their lunch and various pictures Luna had taken during her recent trip. Luna’s soon to be bound album of memories painted a delightful tale of a well-timed holiday, as much as showcasing her burgeoning gift for amateur photography. Hermione smiled to herself as she noted some of Rolf’s annotations on the back of the shots, where he commented favourably on her technique in a delicate, precise script. The adventuring wizard had surprised the Lovegood’s by waiting for them to arrive back home at the apparition point. By Luna’s account, she had been impressed by his carefree, romantic spontaneity; her father had been more taken with the boy’s evident care for his little girls well being.

Much to her obvious distress, Pansy laughed until she snorted at a picture of Xeno reclining on a beach in a pair of rather unflattering, lurid green Bermuda shorts, something he had apparently ‘discovered’ on the island. Luna’s father had taken her to Curaçao, in the Dutch Caribbean, and if Luna’s description was anything to go by, it had been the trip of a lifetime.

“Over sixty per cent of the population is female, and their culture has an incredibly progressive view of gender. In the small magical conclave, witches rule,” Luna expressed with a small grin as she gathered up the pictures and carefully tucked them away.

Hermione sat back and watched her two friends chat as she busied herself with pouring another drink. It was a shame Ginny couldn’t be with them, but her training had been going so well she had written to say she would be extending her trip for a few days. Hermione was incredibly pleased that Ginny was enjoying herself, even if she already missed her; it didn’t bode well for the next year when two of her friends would often be out of the country. It was strange, not even ten months earlier she didn’t have anything resembling the close-knit group of female friends she now had, and yet, in such a short space of time, she had grown so dependant on them.

Hermione’s eyes flicked up from the sugar bowl as Pansy pivoted in her seat to wave down the waiter and she smiled at the girl’s no-nonsense face. They had all agreed to lunch rather than dinner that day as both Pansy and Luna had plans for the evening. Pansy would be returning to her parent’s house the next day; their ‘trial run’ was complete; not that she had heard Pansy call it that in days. Hermione refused to admit, out loud, that she already knew how much she would miss her friend.

“So,” Luna said, speaking louder than she had a moment before, probably as she had picked up on Hermione’s lack of attention. “Regulus.”

Both witches turned in their seats, facing Hermione as she placed down a teapot with a frilly cosy. Both their faces were entirely neutral, and she had the sudden impression that they would have made a formidable interview panel.

Luna reached forward and placed her pale hand over Hermione’s, softening the effect of the abrupt change in conversation. “I realise we haven’t been talking about him,” she said, and the knowledge of the article moved between all of them and Luna eyed her kindly. “But he was there, at your office, talking to you.”

“He was,” Hermione agreed, not feeling as if she had much other option, she could hardly say that Regulus Black sitting across from her in the ministry canteen had been a figment of their collective imaginations, even if it still felt a bit like a dream to her.

Luna’s head tilted the side and Hermione straightened in her seat. “Pansy filled me in on his other appearance also.”

Hermione eyed her current housemate with some amusement. “And did she also tell you about the suspicion that he might be a vampire?”

“Yes,” Luna replied thoughtfully, “though it doesn’t seem likely to me,” she concluded as if that were a perfectly reasonable explanation.

The table was silent as Hermione twiddled with the ends of her hair and the slight tension held a few moments too long for Pansy’s nerves. “Why did he show up? What did he want to say to you that he couldn’t in your department? Did he say why he hasn’t been in touch?” Did he talk about the photo?”

Hermione wanted to make a joke, but she knew better. “Nothing of great import,” she said finally with as casual an air as she dared Pansy’s growing irritation. Hermione glanced at the table as she remembered Regulus looming over her, knocking the breath from her lungs before Kreacher appeared.

“He wanted to talk, and to ask me to go to tea with Malfoy,” she admitted finally.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, “He’s offering you up to a potential suitor?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, in fact, he was unequivocal that was not his intention.”

Pansy huffed, “I’ll bet he was.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she wanted to fall to the ground and sigh or pull her hair out. She couldn’t discuss all she wanted to about her latest encounter with Regulus, mainly as she hadn’t digested it yet, at least not enough to be able to articulate it with any sense. “I don’t understand him at all. Why can’t he be like Rolf?”

“With all due respect, Hermione, you’re hardly like Miss Sugar Plum fairy over here,” Pansy quipped as she pointed to Luna, who grinned, revealing blobs of cake still in her teeth; even that made her look more adorable, rather furthering Pansy’s point. “For girls like you and me,” she continued as she sat forward, “the game is different.”

“How so?” Hermione inquired, shaking her head at the waiter when he once again came to approach.

“We intimidate men,” Pansy said simply as if it were an impeccable statement of fact.

“We do?”

“Yes,” Pansy confirmed in the same no-nonsense tone. “Granted _you_ do it unintentionally, whereas I make it my business to make men feel uncomfortable and where possible, violently inferior.”

Luna nodded sagely as she stirred her tea. “You don’t mean to, Hermione,” the blonde said placatingly, “you can be… a little intense, and passionate. It’s a good thing.”

Hermione racked her brain back over many of her interactions with the opposite sex and while she could see some merit in what the girls were saying she couldn’t believe the same applied when dealing with the time-travelling Black. “I don’t think Regulus is scared of me.”

“I should say not,” Luna readily agreed, “but I would imagine you are a far cry from what he is used to.”

“Docile, genteel pretty girls that want him to like them?” Hermione guessed bitterly, but Pansy shook her head.

“I’m sure there were a few of those, but none that would have caught _his_ interest. Scheming, manipulative bloodthirsty women would have been Regulus’ preferred pick back then I would wager.”

“And I’m nothing like them.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Pansy disagreed with a wicked smile. “When provoked you have a mean streak a mile wide, and you’re as possessive of your friends as any Black has ever been, but it’s not really about any of that. It’s your honesty Regulus will probably find most alarming; you are the most candid person I have ever known. For people like us, that grew up like we did it can be… an _adjustment_.”

Hermione stuffed another cake into her mouth to save her from having to find any response to Pansy’s observations and glanced at the clock to see how long she had left. Luna leant forward as she made her last laboured swallow and eyed Hermione knowingly.

“I imagine you irritate him when you are together, you get under his skin?” she asked, and Hermione nodded.

“He looks at me like he wants to kill me sometimes, other times like…”

“He wants to eat you?” Luna interjected with a grin and Hermione scoffed.

“Death Eater he may have been, Luna, but somehow doubt Regulus has cannibalistic tendencies.”

Pansy smirked diabolically, “That’s not what she meant, sweetheart.”

-//-//-//-

Hermione all but ran back into her office following her lunch/ interrogation with the girls. What with Regulus’ earlier interruption and taking her whole break for the first time since she had started at the ministry, she felt as if she was way behind her usual progress. After an hour of going back over where she left off, Hermione completed her assignment and finalised her thoughts into a document. It was just in time; as the ink dried on her final paragraph, Howard came over to discuss the work, pulling up a chair to her desk and surprising Hermione by giving his time to discuss in detail what she had highlighted so far and explaining what would and wouldn’t work from her range of ideas. Their conversation ended on a happy note, Hermione was pleased to have proper feedback, and even if all her suggestions hadn’t been right, Howard seemed to think she was coming from the right place, more than anything she believed he was happy for the research help.

Satisfied, Hermione pushed one stack of papers to the edge of her desk before grabbing the next pile and setting it in front of her before rolling her neck, ready to begin.

“Who was dark and dangerous?”

Matty’s voice made Hermione smile to herself before she spun on her chair to regard him lazing back on the desk behind her, his legs swinging over the edge.

“A friend… _ish_ ,” Hermione explained, “I’m sorry he came to the office, I promise not to make a habit of visitors. I’ve caught up on…”

Matty waved off her explanations with a relaxed expression. “Don’t worry about it Hermione, my sister was over last year, dropped by the office and interrupted everyone with tales of her kids,  _for hours_ , even then Finola didn’t ask her to leave. You got family?”

Hermione bit on the side of her lip, a mannerism she had picked up after the war to give herself a few moments to compose herself before she blurted out the first thing that came into her head. She had learned the hard way that people rarely wanted the truth when they made polite enquiries. What had happened to her parents was far from typical, but what loss was typical?. “Not really,” she responded, and thankfully Matty didn’t press.

“Matty, please stop disturbing Hermione; she has a job to do.” Finola approached the other side of her desk and placed a report down. “Could you proof this for me, please? Oh, and I have just had Howard in my office, he is delighted with your progress on the Elf Rights Bill. Well done, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled bashfully and glanced over at Howard’s desk to see the portly wizard giving her a cheesy thumbs up. She returned the gesture awkwardly, prompting Matty to burst out laughing.

“What are you bothering her about in any case?” Finola asked, and Matty’s eyes lit up like a child that knew something the adults around him didn’t.

“Her visitor today, did you not see him?” He asked in an affected whisper, “He stalked in all mysterious and deadly looking.”

Finola appeared thoughtful before she looked back at Hermione inquiringly. “The man from the Alley?” Hermione nodded. “Huh. He appears _unexpectedly_ one night and then in the office a few days later?”

“-I don’t think that _encounter_ was planned,” Hermione tried to interject.

“He’s certainly… _determined_ ,” Finola said.

“He’s a stalker,” Matty countered.

“He could be both,” they said together before they shared and small laugh and Hermione did all she could to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Anyway,” Finola chimed as she turned away from them, “as _entertaining_ as Hermione’s love life - or lack thereof - is, I’m sure we have all got better things to be doing.”

-//-//-//-

Hermione proofed the document she had been handed quickly, it was by no means short, but as Finola Arista Bateson could have taught even Headmistress McGonagall lessons on attention to detail, Hermione was hard pressed to find a single mistake. Once she had moved onto the next task, reviewing an ancient collection of instructions on the appropriate care of Grindylows, her mind began to wonder. First to Regulus, but then, with more regularity, to his reason for coming that day, Malfoy. Her initial response to his request was to dismiss it out of hand. She couldn’t say she had missed seeing Malfoy while at Hogwarts for her eight-year, or that she had thought about him much since the end of the war. To say he had been a significant irritant over the years was a gross underestimation and yet, she kept coming back to the problem.

As the afternoon wore on, Hermione scribbled notes from what she could make out of the barely legible text until her hand stilled when she made a realisation. She had _forgiven_ Pansy. Not that the girl had ever asked for it or apologised, but Hermione had been happy to put an end to a childhood grudge, all the same, reasoning that all of that stuff didn’t matter anymore. _Would it be cruel of her to deny Malfoy the same?_ Unquestionably, he had behaved worse than Pansy ever had, but he had also been more hurt in the war.

There was a part of Hermione that knew, deep down, that there was another reason for her hesitation. Apart from the Final Battle, which had passed by in a barely rememberable blur, the last time she had seen the blond tormentor of her youth had been at Malfoy Manor, when she had laid out on the floor in front of him, ready to die.

_Hermione was lying prostrate on the cold stone floor. She speculated as to whether she was still in the very centre of the room, or whether she had now moved from where she first landed. Her vision, what was left of it, was a sea of varying shades of grey. It was oddly beautiful in a way, like standing too close to a charcoal drawing, Hermione couldn’t make out the overall picture, only vague shapes, directions of lines, more impressions of movement than anything else._

_Hermione had made a string of silent promises when they first arrived in the imposing reception room, so far she had only managed to keep two; she had kept her eyes open, and not told them anything about the Sword. It had hurt her pride when she had not been able to hold on to the other pledges, but she would face this ordeal like the Gryffindor the Sorting Hat had said she could be, and she would maintain her loyalty to those who had earned it._

_Not that any of the broken promises mattered anymore. She was dying. Hermione felt it as surely as the certainty she had in her first Charms lesson when she had been so desperate to show that she deserved to be there that she had levitated the crisp white feather to the classroom ceiling. She had known how to do that charm, known it way down to her bones, as she knew now. She knew she was fading._

_A particularly strong Curse threw Hermione back, and as her head lolled to the side, she caught eyes with Malfoy. Hermione wondered if he was lamenting her dirty blood being spilt all over the floor of his posh home._

_When she could make out his face, it didn’t look like he was thinking much of anything, his skin had gone even paler than usual if that could be believed. He appeared almost opalescent under the lights. Evidently, she was losing her mind now if she was likening Malfoy’s skin to the sheen of a precious jewel?_

_She stared at him unblinkingly as his mad aunt crouched over her torso and once again pressed the tip of the cold blade against her arm. ‘Granger’ he seemed to mouth, but why… she didn’t know._

Hermione’s hand trembled a little as she reached for the glass of water on her desk and she took slow, steady sips to chase away the memory of dryness so sore it burnt her throat. The same determination that had filled her that day pulsed in her mind, and she knew she _needed_ to face Malfoy. Under Harry’s request, she had attended - and even spoken at - his trail, but all the time she had avoided his eyes. Maybe in this, she could think more like a Slytherin and couple her need to do something for the good of another soul with her need to face a personal demon.

With a glance at the clock, she set aside her work and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Hermione didn’t give herself time to mull over how she should word her response and put quill to paper to draft her acceptance. Missive complete, she folded it neatly before contemplating her next step. She didn’t want to send an owl, not that Malfoy would question her sending a letter to his cousin but she got the distinct impression he didn’t know about this plan, and now that she had resolved to take part she didn’t want to do anything that might undermine it’s happening.

Hermione looked back over towards the filing cabinet where Kreacher had appeared at will earlier that day and decided that sending the letter via the elf was the obvious solution, only she had no idea when she would see him next; though he popped up regularly it was never by previous invitation or at a specific time.

Not knowing much about the magic of house elves Hermione decided to take another risk and darted a glance around the office quickly before quietly uttering, “Kreacher,” into the air around her.

Somewhat expectedly nothing happened, Hermione’s shoulders slumped before she gave a little self-deprecating chuckle and turned back to the ancient text on her desk.

“Hello!”

Hermione jumped up in shock as the elf had popped up behind her.

“You look surprised,” Kreacher observed, and Hermione nodded dumbly.

“I wasn’t sure that would work,” she confessed, when Kreacher raised a questioning eyebrow, she expanded, “I didn’t know if you would hear me.”

“Elves can hear anyone they want to; we listen mainly to masters. I listen for whenever Miss might need me.”

“Thank you Kreacher,” Hermione explained humbly, not sure how to adequately explain how safe that made her feel. “This is for Regulus,” she said as she handed over the small folded parchment.

Kreacher grinned before he disappeared again, leaving Hermione alone to question whether she was doing the right thing.

* * *

Regulus apparated back to Malfoy Manor with the sense that he may have just scrapped the possibility of victory out of the jaws of inevitable defeat. It wasn’t over, not by a long chalk, but he was done pretending - to himself at least - that he didn’t care about the witch. Staying away from Hermione wasn’t working, in _any_ regard, and he had never been one to hide away from his problems. He would have to see her more, and hopefully, through their growing association, he would be able to help Draco in turn.

Regulus shrugged out of his jacket as he climbed the main stairs and rotated his neck; he had been tenser in the last few hours than he would ever let on, and he was paying for it now with sharp pains in his shoulders. He decided to head to Lucius’ study; there was a small drinks trolley located in the back of the room, and as far as Regulus knew, Draco never drunk in there. He was loathed to drink in front of his cousin at present, he berated himself for the impulse as he climbed the steps, but it was going to take something substantial to wash the metallic taste of the inferior coffee from his tongue.

He paused as he entered, the study was not empty as he had suspected; Narcissa was sat in Lucius’ grandiose desk chair, looking far more leisurely than Regulus had witnessed she was a child. Her feet were tucked up underneath her long skirt, and she had laid her cheek against the richly embroidered chair back, as her slender fingers traced the carved arms as if lost in thought.

Narcissa didn’t notice him at first, which, again, was very unlike his cousin, and though her face was as neutral as ever, Regulus could tell from her eyes that she was unhappy. Not wanting to startle her, he coughed before entering the room, and with the slight provocation, Narcissa bolted upright to straighten herself before Regulus made a quelling motion with his hands.

“Do not trouble yourself, Cissa, it’s only me.”

With his words, she calmed, though she still sat herself up more appropriately, and pressed out imaginary creases from the heavy skirt of her day dress.

“What do you need? How was your ministry visit?” She asked, and for a moment, Regulus almost went along with her blatant attempt to steer the conversation away from herself, only her own words stopped him. Narcissa had spoken much of the war since his return, though the topic never dominated a single conversation, it cropped up in almost every interaction they’d had. Regulus came to wonder how long it had been since his cousin had confided in anyone about her struggles.

Regulus calmly took a seat. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Regulus allowed the silence that followed his statement to envelope them both; he sat quietly, moving back into the chair to get more comfortable and waiting Narcissa out. If she hadn’t wanted to speak, she would have cut him off directly; her deliberation expressed more of being ill-used to communicating her inner feelings than any reluctance to do so.

“I’m not wholly sure that’s what I feel,” she said at last as she nervously pulled on the end of one of her long sleeves.

“No?” Regulus probed gently, and Narcissa shook her head. “Then what do you… feel?”

Despite being the one to open the line of questioning, Regulus was no more comfortable with emotional chats than Narcissa was, being asked how you felt was not common in the sphere they lived in, even in childhood.

She opened her perfectly painted mouth but then closed it again.

“Forgive me,” Regulus interjected, not wanting to give her any more discomfort if it could be avoided. “I should not have asked you such a question; I was only…”

“Regulus,” Narcissa interrupted weakly, “it is... fine, I was merely caught up in trying to think when I had last been asked something so simple. I believe it may have been when Andromeda was still with us.”

Regulus turned his mind away from the image of dark curls blasted off the family tapestry and sat forward. “Would you _like_ to talk about it?”

Narcissa nodded, even though her eyes looked wary. “Promise me that you will not tell a soul.”

“I promise,” Regulus readily agreed.

“I mean it, Reggie,” Narcissa pushed, and he almost smiled at her demanding nature surfacing even in her time of grief.

“I know,” he replied. “I have made you promises before and never have I broken them. Like how I never told _anyone_ that it was you that smashed Bella’s doll or about that Muggle boy who gave you a flower that summer.”

Her eyes brightened for a moment, lit up with memories of days gone by. “They would never have believed you anyway,” she remarked with a teasing smile that Regulus returned.

“That was your gift; everyone always thought the very best of you.”

“Everyone,” she repeated, her eyes clouding over again with sadness, “most of all Lucius. When we first met, I used to think I could tell him the sky was a vibrant fuschia, and he would have nodded along without question.”

“You think that will have changed?” Regulus asked in confusion. If there was one couple that he had seen in his youth that he had always expected to be happy, it was his cousin and the then Malfoy heir. At first, he had thought of Lucius as something of a collector, a man that liked to gather pretty things around him and one that had extended such aspirations to his wife. But, on knowing him better, observing him more, Regulus realised that from the day Lucius and Narcissa had met, the sun had risen and set for the man based on Narcissa’s smile.

Narcissa sighed, “I’m not sure. It’s not that I don’t miss him, I do, I miss him so much that it’s a struggle to function. Without him, I only feel like part of a whole. We met each other while I was still at school and he was always such a fantasy figure to me, the veritable ‘white knight’, the man that would one day sweep into my father’s home and steal me away forever. I loathe the thought of him in that cell, alone and haunted. I always wonder what we would be doing if he was here, whether it would be better for Draco if he was… all of it. But more than that, I wonder what our lives will be like when he gets out. He was so broken Regulus, so desperate, and then he was put in there.”

“His sentence was short,” Regulus placated, “the conditions are improved…”

“I know all of that,” Narcissa said as she waved a hand dismissively. “I have not known, seen, conversed or been loved properly by my husband, my _real husband_ for years. Everything has been survival, existing, what will happen when he comes back? Do we carry on as we were? Will we start again?”

Regulus mutely stared back at his cousin unsure how to provide comfort, cliches and platitudes were just that, useless words.

“I’m tired, Regulus,” Narcissa said into the quiet, and he nodded, just once.

“Then I suggest you rest, dear cousin; there is nothing to be gained by fretting. Your husband will free soon, and until then, all of your questions will go unanswered. When he is out, he will need your strength, so try to conserve some now.”

Narcissa sank back into Lucius’ chair and looked back at him. “So, how was the ministry?”

“As expected,” Regulus began, “I had a meeting, though honestly, I am unsure of its overall success; I believe that I may have hit upon something that might be of help to Draco.”

When he had outlined his thoughts, Narcissa stared at him knowingly for a few moments before she drew herself up out of the chair. “I believe I had best go and speak to my son.”

“I thought I should raise it,” Regulus countered, “and in any case, we do not have Miss Granger’s agreement yet.”

“You will, if I know anything about that trio she will do it, even if her only reason is so that we won’t believe her to be afraid. No, it is best coming from me, Draco will want to go, but he will not admit that to you, he will pretend he does not wish it when I speak to him, but he will at least be saved the _humiliation_ of agreeing by having me order him to do it.”

* * *

Regulus turned Hermione’s letter over in his fingers as he made his way to the small Black family gallery. He had felt rather stupid following Narcissa’s immediate assertion that Hermione would say yes, even more so when he considered the speed in which her affirmative reply was given. That she had made use of Kreacher to do so amused him; his elf’s deferential treatment clearly perplexed Hermione, and yet she had seemingly given in to many of his overtures.

Regulus rounded the last corner and tucked the parchment back into his coat pocket before he stood before the frame he sought.

“There you are boy,” Phineas barked, “I was beginning to think you had all but forgotten about your _duty_ in the last few weeks.”

“Hardly Sir,” Regulus replied evenly, “I have decided on a new seat for the House of Black, Domus Vert, we are to begin the process of opening it up in the next week.”

“Domus Vert?” his ancestor replied, “not exactly a grand manor is it?”

“No, it is not, but I am hardly in need of one of those.”

Phineas eyed him over his permanently full wine glass with a look that suggested he thought Regulus was something of a dullard. “The state of the home is none of your concern boy, but a townhouse is not likely to attract women of your sphere.”

“And why would I need one of those?” Regulus replied dryly.

“The continuation of the line. You are back, and though the circumstances are murky, it is high time you ended your bachelor ways and fully reinstated the House of Black to its former glory.”

Regulus sighed. “A conversation for another day perhaps. How are things at Hogwarts?”

“The same as ever, though slightly more boring at present as the children are away. Speaking of which, how is the Granger witch?”

“Why do you ask?” Regulus replied crisply, and Phineas smiled knowingly at him.

“Because I have a fair idea you’ll know.”

“She is well,” he replied eventually, feeling an imagined press of parchment - adorned with her writing - against his ribs.

“Is she now? And tell me, what are _her_ opinions on manors?”

“I hardly know,” Regulus replied, “In any case, the dinner hour approaches, I will see you soon, Great Grandfather.”

“Not if I see you first,” the old man replied, refilling his drink.

* * *

Hermione eyed the restaurant she had received instructions to arrive at with a good deal of suspicion. The building was nondescript, middle of the road, average, and decidedly, irrefutably, Muggle. Not like Malfoy at all, though she had nothing in the way of proof that he had even picked it out; _maybe Regulus had?_ Though, Malfoy had been the one to send her instructions which had surprised her. Regulus had sent back a short note thanking her for agreeing, and for seeing him ‘unannounced’ which was more than she had gotten from him before. His letter was followed by one from Malfoy, which gave a new definition to brevity; he had merely sent directions and signed his name. In a way, Hermione was grateful; she had enough information and memories from their association to allow her to imagination to create a million scenarios for how this meeting could go, another letter would hardly have helped.

Hermione worried her lip as she focused on the faded gold lettering etched onto the swinging sign before she gave herself a mental slap. She had said she would come, and she was now there, literally on the street in front of the place, it wouldn’t do to turn tail now though her feet didn’t want to obey that command.

Hermione glanced at herself in the reflective frontage and did her best to pull her worried face into an expression of calm, happy, indifference. In the end, all she managed was to get herself looking halfway lobotomised, but she considered that was probably the best she could hope under the circumstances and rushed towards the door before she changed her mind.

The inside was no grander than the out, and a harassed looking waitress with what looked like jam splattered over her apron greeted Hermione hurriedly before pointing her in the direction of the very back of the place. At least, Hermione said to herself as she moved through the tables, Malfoy hadn’t been able to see her little display on the street.

Malfoy was looking at the bleached table top when she eventually stopped next to him, and Hermione managed to choke out a quiet, “Hi,” before she removed her jacket and sat down opposite. He didn’t look particularly welcoming, but she had determined that if she was going to do this, she would confront the meeting as she did everything, with total honesty and without allowing herself to fall into the submission he surely expected from her.

“I wasn’t sure you would turn up,” he said eventually, and Hermione let out a breath; though the comment was direct, it lacked any of the usual snark she had come to associate with Malfoy’s on the whole. It felt like a good start. Better than at least fifty of her imagined scenarios in any case.

“Neither was I,” she replied.

Hermione placed her bag on the empty seat next to her, and the table fell into silence. They were too far away from the other diners to enjoy the benefit of any background noise they might have provided and she hadn’t seen the waitress since she had sent her off in this direction.

The silence was awkward and cumbersome, and as Malfoy showed no signs of endeavouring to end it, Hermione supposed it would fall on her to be the grown up. “Well, this is uncomfortable,” she observed and watched him for a reaction. She got one. His head snapped up from its downward tilt, and he sneered at her, the expression was so much more familiar that it was almost comforting. _This Malfoy_ she knew how to deal with.

“Way to state the fucking obvious Granger.”

Hermione shrugged, refusing to fall to his level like she would have done so quickly as a young girl. During their early years at Hogwarts, one scorned word from the boy would have been enough to puff out her hair and have her hissing at him like a cat. Not anymore. “Sorry,” she replied, clearly without meaning it, “I read somewhere that if you acknowledge an awkward situation, you can relieve the tension.”

“Of course you did,” Malfoy huffed with a shake of his head, “only you would try and learn about social interaction from a bloody book.”

Against her best efforts, Hermione’s hackles rose, and she leant forward in her chair. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Why did you come then?”

His words were bit out just as harshly as the others had been but there was a hint of curiosity in his face that stuck a pin in her ire, Hermione realised with a start that she felt a bit sorry for him. The end of the war had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. His hair was its ever silvery blond, but even though she was sure it was immaculately clean, it looked lank and lifeless, like the rest of him. Everything she remembered about Malfoy was harsh lines, his angular face and the rigid way he held himself. The boy slumped in the chair in front of her looked like a pale imitation of the boy she had once known.

“I don’t know,” she revealed eventually. “Because I was asked, because I was curious, because I was free this afternoon?”

Draco’s jaw seemed to unhinge as he eyed her with disdain. “Do you ever think _anything_ that doesn’t immediately come out of your mouth?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied primly, bouncing a little on the battered cushion beneath her as she attempted to sit up straighter. “I thought you looked like crap when I arrived, but I managed not to vocalise it, until now of course.”

Hermione glanced down at the menu to avoid meeting what she supposed would be a scathing look until she heard him make a little ‘Humph’ sound, and to her total befuddlement Malfoy seemed to be laughing, and not in a dignified way, or in the sniggering tone he’d had when they were at school. If she didn’t know him better, she would say he was giggling.

The moment was broken when the waitress returned, with, unless Hermione was very much mistaken, a newly acquired stain on her apron since she had last seen her.

“I’ll have a whisky,” Malfoy ordered before turning to her, “and _Hermione_ , what will you have?”

Hermione decided to overlook the deliberate use of her first name and focus on the other issue. “That’s not tea?”

“I am aware of that,” Draco answered dryly.

“But we were meeting for _tea_.”

“I see my cousin has been telling tales.”

“Regulus has said nothing,” she countered, “I helped you into a floo, remember?”

Malfoy merely shrugged, and Hermione turned back to the waitress to indicate what she wanted on the menu with a point, she still needed food to function whether or not her table mate was the same.

“Cat got your tongue?” Malfoy prodded after the waitress had left and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“I didn’t think I would pronounce it correctly, and I suspected you’d take the piss.”

“A fair judgement call.”

“Mal…” Hermione breathed in for a moment and cursed her bleeding heart. “Draco?”

The name felt unfamiliar on her tongue, but she tried to ignore it when he looked at her with something like gratitude in his eyes which made Hermione feel a sense of pity she was sure he would despise her for.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

The waitress arrived back and handed over their drinks and Hermione’s salad, allowing the question to hang between them for an age. Draco gathered up a serviette wrapped bundle of cutlery and moved his hand over it, bringing up the stainless steel to a higher shine before he handed it over to her. Hermione had taken ten silent bites of her food before he spoke again.

“Not really no,” he said at last, and Hermione’s fork stilled on the way to her mouth.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, careful to sound as casual as possible.

Draco’s fingers clenched around his short glass, the picture of a young man at war with himself. “Possibly,” he admitted eventually. “You have to promise me you won’t tell Scarhead and Weaselbee about this.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed quickly, “they don’t even know I’m here.”

Draco threw back the contents of his glass with alarmingly little reaction to the burn of the alcohol. “Ashamed of meeting up with a Death Eater are you?” he accused, and Hermione rolled her eyes as she stuffed a forkful of food into her mouth.

“Appreciation of your requested secrecy or indignation for it, you can’t have them both, Malfoy.”

“Sorry I-” Draco began, but Hermione cut him off.

“It’s fine; I am sure you will forgive me for sharing that I hardly expected this meeting to be harmonious.”

Draco wiped a hand over his face and nodded. “Speaking of… secrets, you should know that I told Regulus about… about what happened at my house.”

Hermione tensed, though she had known the subject would come up she hadn’t expected it so quickly. She swallowed roughly before putting down her cutlery. “I gathered as much; we talked about it.”

“I’m sorry if you were trying to…”

She cut him off again. “It’s fine.”

“You say that a lot you know,” he said and Hermione’s fingers pinched into the napkin at the side of her plate.

“And how would you know?” she bit out defensively.

Draco nodded in concession before turning to look out the window at the quiet street along the side of the restaurant. Hermione pushed the half eaten food away from her, wishing she had just followed his lead and ordered something to take the edge off.

“But you didn’t tell him,” he observed quietly and Hermione considered his words.

“I don’t know him, not really.”

She wasn’t sure whether her answer satisfied him, but he didn’t press, so she allowed herself to hope that the subject of his cousin was closed to them, for now. Draco picked up a somewhat sticky looking ketchup bottle and began to wave his hand over it to clean away the remnants around the lid.

“Do you think about it?” he asked without looking up, and Hermione felt her throat go tight. She didn’t have to ask what he meant. She didn’t have to think very hard to almost feel the cold of the slate manor floor on her back or the sound of Bellatrix’s manic cackles.

_Distantly Hermione registered that some of her clothing must have been removed, she could detect that her torso, in particular, felt colder, she was sure she could feel the slate slabs of the floor directly on the skin of her back._

_Hermione stopped begging after her throat gave out, she could taste blood and was just able to turn her head to spit it up when the copper taste made her stomach roll. She could feel it trickling from her nose and her left ear, the sensation irritating her chilled flesh._

_Her head repeatedly thumped against the hard surface of the floor; Hermione couldn’t control the impulse to thrash, she could feel soft spots forming over her skull, tiny patches that felt they could cave in with another hard push._

_But she never told them anything._

_They would kill her anyway._

Hermione’s hand moved to her forearm, and she tried to meet his eyes, “Yes.”

Draco glanced at her forearm and then back at his own, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hermione’s reflections on Malfoy Manor are reworked sections from Pictures of You, after writing that scene once I wasn’t really up for the challenge again!


	14. Chapter 14

When Regulus emerged from the fireplace into his new townhouse, he saw something a far cry from the building of his first visit. The Green House, as he had come to call it - Latin names were seen as even more pretentious now than they had been during his youth - had taken on a new life in the few weeks since he had decided to call it home.

Regulus walked around the main hall and speculatively opened doors to run an eye over the latest progress. Furniture had been placed in all the key areas, and there was a great deal more light now that all of the old and decaying shutters had been removed from the large windows. So many times in his life Regulus had wished for more light, both literal and figurative, now, he had a near abundance of both.

The townhouse had been uninhabited for a long time, and it had shown. From the records, Regulus didn’t believe anyone had resided there for over a hundred years, however, at least the previous occupant’s style had been more reserved than that of his mother and was therefore easy to correct.

Narcissa hadn’t even known the property existed when Regulus had first brought her there, which had not a surprise. When Walburga Black had married his father, she had decided that living in a townhouse was the ‘modern’ thing to do and as it would be the home of the Black Family Patriarch, she had simpered and cajoled until all of the similar properties were shut up and removed from the ledgers. It was only because Regulus knew of this that he had known where to look to uncover the forgotten properties.

Walburga had told his father at the time that hierarchy needed to be observed, and it wouldn’t be done to have someone living in a better home than them. His mother had never advocated sharing toys. What was yours, was yours, and everyone else could look elsewhere or stick a pin in their eye.

Looking around the polished wood floorboards and dark green walls covered with gilded-framed artwork they had discovered in the archives, Regulus conceded that Walburga might have been right to act in such a way; his house was only half finished and it was already superior to hers, though in a less central location.

Any thought to competition was a thing of the past as Regulus knew he had no fear of the Grimmauld Place of today outshining his home. Potter could tear that place to the ground and rebuild it a new, and he would never be able to burn out the sadness that lingered into the walls. Though Potter seemed happy to live in a mausoleum, Regulus supposed it was less off-putting when it wasn’t the tomb of _your_ family you were walking around in.

Regulus stepped out of a large receiving room as he heard small feet pad heavily on the floor above followed by some disgruntled speech, too muffled to understand from where he was standing. He tried to school his features so that he wasn’t smiling if Kreacher suddenly appeared, but it was a hard-won battle.

Kreacher and a band of elves that Narcissa had left at his disposal had been working tirelessly to get his new residence clean, and Narcissa had been overseeing the necessary restoration and fit out. Regulus had been hesitant to allow his cousin full reign on the project after all Malfoy Manor was lovely, but it wasn’t exactly to his design. But Narcissa had claimed that the works were her gift to him, so he couldn’t politely refuse, which was exactly her plan.

Regulus walked further up the hall towards the sweeping staircase listening to the echo of his hard bottomed shoes on the uncarpeted ground as he regarded the ceiling roses that had been cleaned yesterday - according to Kreacher’s report. He heard the floo activate behind him and he turned in time to see Narcissa step out of the grate, looking as immaculate as ever.

“I trust everything meets with your approval,” she said, without a hint of trepidation over his response.

“Quite,” Regulus answered succinctly and smiled when she huffed. “It is _wonderful_ , Narcissa, as you well know.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow and sauntered past him in a billow of robes that made Regulus question where Severus had initially got the idea for his dramatic entrances from.

“One would think _indeed_ , though it would not kill you to say so.”

Regulus nodded to allow her point but kept himself quiet as she guided him through the primary rooms that were near completion. Regulus went along with the unplanned tour, even when they revisited places he had already seen, and when they spent what he considered to be far too long discussing the arrangements of glassware and scatter cushions.

It was a lot for Regulus to take in. In some ways, he had been studying and planning for most of his life in preparation for this moment. Before Sirius was blown off the tapestry, Regulus had assumed it would be his lot to take a wife and go and find some forgotten property to inhabit and then populate with sombre, dutiful children but later everything had changed. Somehow he had become the heir, and the expectations had unexpectedly got worse.

When he had been at Hogwarts, Regulus had looked at his older brother with envy, believing at the time that Sirius didn’t fully appreciate the increased freedoms he had as the heir. _Sirius could make the rules_ , or so Regulus had thought. Then Sirius was gone, and Regulus realised just how imagined that freedom was, he would never have been allowed to slink off, he would have had to remain at Grimmauld Place, living under the watchful and critical eye of his mother until he stood in his father’s place. Even then, Walburga would have still been there, pontificating from the shadows. She hadn’t been the type to move to a dowager house. She would have insisted Regulus marry a compliant, pretty sort of witch and then she would have steadily ruined the poor girl’s life by always complaining that she could never do anything the way she wanted.

Regulus glanced down at the ring on his finger and let himself clear his mind. Sometimes when he was lost in memories, he would swear he could hear his mother’s shrill voice or feel clawed, wet fingers at his throat. He concentrated on the weight of the ring and its familiar sheen until the thoughts disappeared.

He looked around the house he had just selected, a house far too big for one. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The expectations were still there in this time frame. The world around him might have been more modern, but he could see the old ways seeping in from everywhere. He was the heir to an old house, possibly the last of the ancient houses that still had a notion of power despite its vicious fall. Regulus twisted the ring on his finger as he followed along with what Narcissa was saying and made sure to make the appropriate noises of appreciation at the right moments. At least his mother was dead, he comforted himself, though seeing Walburgha attempt to combat the witches of today would have been a sight. Not enough to wish her back, but a thought all the same.

Soon, Narcissa tired of having him for a monosyllabic shadow and sent him off to go exploring upstairs while she got an update from Kreacher on the works they had planned for the kitchens.

The dismissal suited Regulus well, though he made sure to look crestfallen to be bereft of her company. Narcissa almost laughed as his face twisted into dramatic regret, and the short show of mirth made her almost look as young as he remembered her. Regulus slunk off before she could question his direction and waited until he heard a door close in the distance before he increased his pace to the centre of the house.

Regulus had meant to go to the library for the longest time. He hadn’t been at Grimmauld Place long enough after Hermione’s _grand reveal_ to seek out what he wanted, and while he was sure that the Malfoy library would have what he needed he was equally sure it would have a system in place that would record any book that was taken from within its highly polished depths - which, given Regulus’ desired reading material, he found to be entirely unacceptable.

The day before, Kreacher had let him know that Potter had agreed to the removal of what remained of the Black Library. Regulus had tried to feel grateful about it, but it had irked him to have to ask for the remnants of his birthright. Though he conceded that Potter had at least been quick to give his consent. Apparently, he had told Kreacher that he was ‘no great reader’, Regulus believed that he was no great mind either considering the value, both monetary and otherwise, that he was happily signing away.

Regulus moved amongst the neatly ordered stacks and let his hands drift over the spines of a few of his father’s favourites - the safe ones in any case - as he got his bearings in the newly furnished room. Towards the back, a small seating area had been set up in front of a large fireplace with a rather impressive looking and well-stocked drinks trolley over to its left. The sight of it made Regulus feel old. This would be _his_ place now, his place to plan and scheme and plot the future of his family name, the rebuilding of his once-grand house. This home would become its new seat of power, with him as its leader: not his father, not Sirius,  _him_.

Regulus’ steps momentarily faltered in a somewhat uncharacteristic display of emotion as he regarded the second chair that had been placed into the alcove in front of the unlit grate.

The chair intended for his use was easy to distinguish; it was large and stately, made out of an aged leather of the darkest green. There were no adornments that would fall into the camp of frippery; it was as powerful looking as it was expensive, and it had been built to withstand generations of use. It would be the chair that his sons would eventually sit in, after spending their formative years climbing up onto its seat and awkwardly resting their hands onto the arms and frowning to make each other laugh when they thought no one was looking. It was everything that was expected.

The other chair was a different matter entirely. Regulus did not have a head - or heart for that matter - for interior design, but he assumed it was typical in such seating arrangements for chairs placed together to be twins, or in a case where that could not be managed a near facsimile would be used. Narcissa was continually talking about the importance of symmetry, and yet in this little arrangement, it appeared to have been forsaken entirely.  

The chair on the other side of the fire - the one that would traditionally be for his Lady - was different. It was made of light brown leather and was no doubt of the same origin as his own, but this one looked _worn_. There was a dimple in the centre of the seat that made it look comfortable, and a large cushion in a hideously mismatched fabric that was nestled against the arm. A rather heavy-looking grey red throw with gold stitching was settled over the top, ready to cover the sitter’s legs and as Regulus catalogued all of the features he came to the sudden realisation that there was no doubt in his mind _exactly_ who the chair was intended for. If he thought about it he could almost see her there, wearing a jumper as thick as the blanket and staring up at him as he poured them a drink; a single, sock-clad foot poking out from under the throw distracting him as he tried to beckon her to join him in his own seat.

Regulus was thankful he was alone when the image came to him so powerfully that he almost staggered back from its intensity. He also managed to resist the urge to call Kreacher to chastise him for his choice of furnishings. His elf had always been too clever by half, and Regulus knew Kreacher would claim ‘it was just a chair’, insinuating that any further inference was all in Regulus’ head, all while he wore a knowing, toothy smile.

Instead, Regulus backed away from the currently empty chairs and looped back around the stacks with an impression of nonchalance - it was good to practise, even if you were not observed - before he found what he was looking for.

The section was scant, even in a library as extensive of that of his forefathers some subjects were too rare to offer much, the material simply didn’t exist.

His hand stilled before he reached for the volume that seemed the most promising, as he questioned for the hundredth time if he was going to do this. The gilt lettering on _Animae Dimidium Meae_ was almost completely faded, though the leather of the book itself appeared reasonably intact. Regulus imagined most of the damage had been done by sunlight in the general neglect that had occurred since his parent’s deaths. It was unlikely that this volume had been consulted often, having learnt the history of his family as a child, Regulus couldn’t think of a single ancestor who would have had cause to pursue the contents of the text in front of him. Black’s married for many reasons, though love was not considered a useful enough bargaining chip for it to be considered in such matters.

Regulus’ fingers danced across the spine for a moment before he went in search of another place to sit down, one far away from the perfectly situated area he had come across earlier.

When he was finally comfortable, he cracked open the spine, and the book fell neatly into what appeared to be two even halves. Regulus scoffed. “Figures.”

* * *

Hermione gently put her clipboard onto the floor and shrugged into her cardigan as quietly as she possibly could. As she had people pinned tightly to her on both sides, she had to practically dislocate her shoulder to do so, but it was worth it not to disturb the conversation currently in process.

Their entire department, which was a grander way to label the ten or so people she worked with, had been ensconced in the only meeting room they had available for their use, for nearly an hour. Even with their scant numbers, the room wasn’t big enough, so the table had been moved out to accommodate the additional chairs.

The room was less slick than Hermione had imagined in all her daydreams of working at the Ministry, the paintwork was chipped, the chairs were mismatched, and there was no tea or coffee making facilities to speak of. A more pressing concern was that the air conditioning charms were faulty and so the temperature varied from subtropical to virtually arctic at an alarming rate. Over the course of the last ten minutes she had got so could her teeth were chattering, and Hermione was immensely grateful that Matty had told her to bring an extra layer with her before they entered.

The department had registered a maintenance request for the room, several in fact, but it appeared in this, like in everything else at the Ministry, their brand of conscious led politics came last.

The department had these full briefing meetings every two weeks, and it was a chance for everyone to update each other, and more importantly Finola, on what they had been doing. Or as Matty had referred to it before they entered, ‘time to justify your paycheck’.

After a briefing from Andrea - a tiny witch Hermione had never before seen as she was always out in the field - involving a ten-foot scorpion that had been found in Northern Africa that was, Merlin help them all, apparently sentient , Howard got up from his chair to present his preliminary analysis on the current House Elf Bill. The team were debating the potential success of lobbying for amendments to the existing legislation.

Hermione wanted to suggest setting the musty paperwork on fire, as part of her work with Howard she had read all three hundred of the pages that made up the existing legislation and they were so outdated it was laughable. But, Hermione held her tongue; she was learning. The little girl with the bleeding heart that had blistered her fingers knitting for freedom had been tempered by experience. They did good work in this department, but they had to do it piece by piece to win over the old guard, or in some cases, flummox them by giving them so much paperwork they were frightened they’d look stupid by not agreeing.

Finola had likened their work to restoring a once beloved crockery set. While it was true that the collection was now so battered and worn it would have been easier to get a new one, there were still so many people that were set in their ways that would never settle for a new service. So instead they searched for the pieces that were the most cracked, or in some cases, lost entirely, and they not only mended them but they made them better, replacing whole sections when they could get away with it.

Hermione jostled forward to peel off her cardigan and blew a hard breath upwards at the hair that was now sticking to her forehead as the temperature in the room now sored. The group bandied around the subject for nearly half an hour as no one could decide where it would be best to start. The conversation wasn’t aimless, far from it, but to Hermione - as newly diplomatic as she was trying to be - she felt they were wasting time worrying about how mister so and so would feel when these issues were happening _now_.

Hermione listened and fiddled with her pen as she considered the problem until the image of Dobby came unbidden to mind. For the first time in a long while she remembered the brave, eager elf as he had been, full of life and thrilled to be with Harry after a lifetime of misery living with the Malfoy’s. Through Dobby, Hermione had finally understood that some elves - _most_ if she were honest with herself - would never be truly happy unless they had a good master to serve. Unfortunately for them, good was a relative term.

“What if we initiated a complaints system?” she said before she had thought about it, her mind was still fixed on too large eyes looking up with a gleam of devotion.

All of the considered voices in the room disappeared within a second. The Ministry employees - her colleagues she supposed - turned to look at her and Hermione tried not to shrink back behind her notes. She might have been intimidated, but they didn’t need to know that. Though feigning confidence was easier said than done. This wasn’t the same as a school where everything counted towards a particular mark, and her peers were unlikely to be even listening. This was a new environment entirely, one where she would have to build a reputation and earn her stripes, all while navigating the broader political landscape that even after seven years in the magical world felt so foreign to her.

“Go on,” Finola encouraged with a single quirked brow, and Hermione cleared her throat.

“At the moment, as I see it, the biggest issue we have is not with the antiquated laws themselves but with reporting of issues in the first place. Not a single house elf has reported infractions to the Ministry in the last decade, and it’s not surprising. They are likely to view it as a huge betrayal to speak to another wizard; it would go against the bonds they view as sacred to their families. Bonds that they do not feel are corroded no matter how badly they are treated. What if we were to set up something that was informal, maybe even anonymous? What if we set up reporting so that complaints were initially received by another elf?”

Finola seemed to chew the matter over for a few moments before she nodded, just once.

“Interesting idea, it might have legs,” she replied succinctly. “Hermione, while we still have you, work with Howard. I think there’s something in that - put together a proposal.”

“I can… I can do that,” Hermione replied a little awed, even as the rest of the team began to pack up around her. _She would be assisting in writing a proposal to help in the reforms for House Elves._

“Do you have an elf you can speak to that would be happy to provide direction and feedback?” Hermione blinked away her rambling thoughts and her mind turned to _another_ elf, one who she wouldn’t have even described as happy on his best day.

“Yes, yes, I do.”

Hermione realised as she said it that that had been what she was missing before. Sure she’d had good intentions when she was up half the night making badges that no one wanted, but she had never consulted the elves to find out what _they_ thought. The war had taught her many things as it had forced her to grow up. It had been youthful, the privileged-tinged folly that had told her she knew better than a whole species. It would be different this time. This opportunity was too valuable to squander.

Finola nodded again before tipping her head towards the door, and Hermione suddenly realised that she was the only one left behind. She gathered up the rest of her things and barrelled back onto the floor, hoping to review her week so she could clear ample time to deliver on her new task. She didn’t make it back to her desk before Howard placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Lunch tomorrow?” he asked warmly, “you bring the paperwork; I’ll bring the sarnies.”

“That would be great,” Hermione answered with a broad grin, a smile that was cut off as she got a swift, though relatively slight, elbow to the ribs.

“Dial it back, would you Hermione? Too much of this peachy-keen attitude and oversharing of ideas and you’ll end up replacing me,” Matty said with a wink.

Hermione grinned. “Unlikely I think,” she responded primly. “I could convince the Wizengamot to fund Wolfsbane out of their own pockets, single-handed, and I could still never replace you. Finola loves you too much.”

“How could she not, look at this face,” he replied and pulled a gurning expression.

Hermione waved him away as she sat at her desk and pulled together her work so far on the House Elf Bill to review before tomorrow. She looked over her list and saw that she had just enough time to tally the crime numbers into the report she had been asked to produce, though as she reached for her paperwork, she disturbed some other parchment on her desk.

Her _drinks_ with Draco - you couldn’t call eating a salad next to someone who pounded four double whiskies meeting for ‘tea’ - had been two days before and that morning Hermione had received a sort of thank you letter. Sort of as in the words were never mentioned, but she had picked them up in the general tone along with an apparent desire to further the acquaintance unless she was very much mistaken.

Once she and Draco had faced the shared demon of the events of her capture, they had drifted to more comfortable talk on safer topics; what people from school were doing and the like. Hermione couldn’t say that she had enjoyed their time together, and she had told Draco as much, which had made him snort into his third glass of amber liquid and do one of his almost smiles.

Hermione’s discomfort wasn’t his fault, at least not entirely, but the subjects that hovered between them were comprised of things that she typically didn’t speak of. Dragging them to the surface was not without a cost, and Hermione knew Pansy had noticed her tired eyes the last two mornings. But if she could pull Draco back from wherever he was disappearing to in his own mind, maybe it was worth it, perhaps it would help her as well. She couldn’t discuss these issues with Harry; his guilt was too heavy a burden for him to be able to listen without apologising. She didn’t want his pity. Ron was too angry to discuss it with her, even now Hermione could see how his fists would clench whenever he caught sight of her arm. It was better than pity, but only just. Regulus had only asked her about it once, and Hermione had shut down the conversation immediately. His knowing glance had penetrated her deeper than any of the cuts Bellatrix had made on her body and Hermione wasn’t ready to be challenged in the way she knew he would challenge her. It made Draco safe. It was a rather ridiculous notion given their history, but it was true all the same.

Hermione glanced down at the half-completed parchment and tried to ignore how troubled she felt. She was partway through a reasonably generic reply to Draco, she had started it on her lunch break but as she didn’t feel in any rush to respond - she was sure Draco was hardly awaiting her response with bated breath - so it could come home with her. What she was troubled by, was the feeling that since meeting Draco had been his cousin’s idea, she owed Regulus a note. The idea had bubbled up in her mind as soon as she had received Draco’s letter, and no matter how she tried now that she’d had it, she couldn’t push the thought away.

The problem was that Hermione couldn’t tell whether she simply wanted to let Regulus know they had met from a sense of politeness or whether she was just inventing a reason to contact him. The later was much more dangerous than the former.

A very chippy voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she could not berate him for failing to contact her when she was avoiding him as well. Hermione had dragged him forward in time, and she was a modern witch, if she wanted to take some control who was to stop her?

Hermione sighed before pulling a piece of parchment out of her neat stack and gave herself up as a fool as her pen hit the page.

* * *

Regulus walked into Lucius’ study and tried to ignore the negligible weight of the newly acquired book in his pocket. Needing to distract himself, he sat down behind the desk and reviewed the paperwork that he had been sorting through the day before. He hoped this would be the last time he used this room to do so. Work on the house was nearly complete and in a day or so there would be nothing outstanding that could not be completed while he was in residence. Though he was grateful for Narcissa for giving him access to the room  - more so because it was indicative of her easy acceptance of him as the head of the family than anything else - it cast darker shadows than those caused by the ornately carved furniture.

Regulus could remember being called into this very room to meet with the Dark Lord for the first time, all of their initial encounters had been in this room. It had made Regulus feel as if he were being summoned to receive praise, access to the private studies of your elders was not to be taken lightly in their world, and Voldemort had known just how to play them all to create the image he wanted.

Soon, too soon, the tête-à-têtes they had shared had become the kind of memory where you questioned whether they had happened at all, and gone were the warm rooms with soft furnishings and softer praise. It was all cold floors and dark circles after that.

But that first time there had been no kneeling and no pain. There had been a large desk, _this_ large desk, and a seat for both of them. There had been the illusion of equality. There had been a spun out tale that they would be joining a club of a kind, and that ever desired word _exclusivity_ had been thrown around with tantalising abandon.

Voldemort had sat in Lucius’ hard-earned chair and steepled his fingers as he regarded Regulus’ calm expression. If it had been anyone else, Regulus would have raised an eyebrow when he felt the intrusion against his mind, but he had hidden his physical reaction - even as his internal walls went up like steel lined shutters.

Regulus shook his head to clear the memories and focused instead on the here and now. At the end of the large desk was his portion of the ’day’s mail and he decided to begin there. Though he had no great desire to read through the post, he was keen to put off yet more hours of pouring over the family account and investments. He needed to see the Goblins, but he couldn’t do that until Kingsley pulled his finger out of his backside, and that didn’t appear to be happening anytime soon.

There were numerous receipts for things either Narcissa or Kreacher had ordered, and some were for seemingly excessive amounts, but Regulus barely reacted. When receiving instruction from his father on matters of finances, he’d had the chance to witness his mother’s version of ‘necessary’ spending. Walburga Black made Narcissa Malfoy look frugal. It turned out rare creature taxidermy was as expensive as it sounded.

At the bottom of the pile were two handwritten notes. Immediately he recognised that one of them bore Hermione’s handwriting, which was unexpected, to say the least. Regulus debated with himself whether it was best to open it first or save it till last? In the end, he darted a glance towards the door before he ripped open the envelope and cast his eyes over the small amount of script.

_Mr Black,_

_Draco and I met for ‘tea’ as you requested. You can ask him about the inverted commas, though I imagine you already know enough that such a conversation would be unnecessary._

_I think I understand why you asked me to go now. I don’t want to reveal too much and betray a confidence, but I wanted you to know that I will do what I can to help._

_I should also make you aware that he has asked to keep our meeting private, as such Harry and Ron do not know. Harry mentioned that he had spoken to you about your library, and I would be grateful if you didn’t mention it to him in any of your future correspondence. I don’t think they would care, but they wouldn’t like the secrecy, honestly, neither do I but I understand why it’s necessary in this case._

_Miss Granger_

In any other circumstance, Regulus would have viewed such a letter as entirely inconsequential, but he knew better. During the time he had known Hermione she had never communicated with him any more than was absolutely necessary, and while this could hardly be described as an enthusiastic attempt to begin a dialogue, it was more verbose than any of her previous letters by miles.

The second letter he opened with less interest and found himself unsurprised when the sender became apparent. Daphne Greengrass apologised profusely over several paragraphs for not contacting him sooner; she had been on the continent with her family she explained. There was an anecdote about her sister that Regulus skimmed and a not so subtle hint at her availability for a more private dinner in the future.

Regulus let the letter fall onto the desk and eyed the two personal notes he had received while they sat next to each other. He imagined they had both taken the same amount of study to complete. Regulus felt he knew Hermione Granger - though not as well as he would like - and he could imagine she had wrestled with herself over how much to say, or possibly whether to write at all. He believed that as soon as she had resolved to contact him, she would have let the words fall as they would - and sent the letter off before she could rethink it.

Hermione was without artifice to an almost ridiculous degree. With the slightest prod, she would divulge the thoughts that sat in the furthest recesses of her mind. She hadn’t yet learnt the value of her dreams and opinions, and Regulus intended to teach her when she would be more amenable to letting him.

In direct contrast, Daphne’s letter, while perfectly lovely, had the air of conscious study and definite revision. Though the parchment was pristine and the letters were perfectly formed, there was a higher prize to be found in Hermione’s more matter and less art approach. However, whatever his protracted musings concluded, Regulus knew there was only one of the parchment pages that he would keep.

* * *

After a few hours of boring himself to tears reconciling offshore accounts that had been left unmanaged for decades, Regulus went in search of Draco.

Over the previous weeks, Draco’s drinking had continued, and Regulus had been perfecting a more casual approach to keeping an eye on him. Narcissa had given up all pretence of trying to seem unconcerned, and as such, most of her interactions with her son ended badly. On the one hand, Regulus wanted to reprimand him for showing such little respect, but at the same time, he understood the pressures Draco had been put under as well as anyone. Not to mention how he too knew the particular taste of anger that came from realising that most of the plagues that had blighted your life had been started by actions your parents had undertaken without considering how they might have affected you.

Regulus knew he did Narcissa, and even Lucius, a disservice by putting them in the same category as his parents. But they were similar in many ways, many more than they would like to admit he was sure.

Regulus was sure that most of Draco’s anger was directed at Lucius, but the Malfoy Patriarch wasn’t there, which inevitably meant it got released on less culpable people if any of them could be described as such. It was better than letting it fester. Unresolved anger led to resentment so quickly, and Regulus had seen what had become of young men shaped by bitterness all too often.

For once, Draco was not hidden away in the shadows, at least not entirely. He had chosen to sit in one of the larger receiving rooms and though he was drinking - Regulus supposed he should be relieved he hadn’t moved onto hiding it yet - he was also reading. It was moderately comforting to find him occupied by something more than the glass in his hand for a change.

Regulus had been trying not to ask Draco about Hermione. He knew Draco had contacted her after he had all but pushed them together, but he had stopped himself from pressing any further, until today that was. Now that he knew they had met Regulus found he couldn’t leave it alone, as he probably should have.

He was sensible enough to realise that he had to back off if Hermione had any hope of helping Draco. His cousin would not react well if he felt she was doing it out of some kind of obligation, or worse, pity. So, Regulus promised himself that he would let their friendship play out without interference. After this one time.

“I understand you met with Miss Granger,” Regulus said in lieu of greeting as he moved into the room and took a seat.

“Hermione. Yes, I did. Did she send you her report?”

Regulus took more note of his use of her first name than he did of his snide tone. He told himself that Draco and Hermione had gone to school together and nothing more and that a possessive reaction would cause more questions than he could answer at present. The ludicrous idea of Narcissa’s son being a potential love rival was one of those moments when the jump in time seemed to rear up and slam into his chest. Regulus wasn’t sure if he should feel more like forty than nineteen, though, he certainly felt older dealing with the swirling in his head.

“Nothing of the sort I assure you,” he replied carefully.

Draco looked like he would say more until he simply shrugged and turned another page in his book.

“Did it help?” Regulus asked, and for a moment he thought Draco was going to ignore him, but after a few seconds, he could tell that he was thinking hard about his response.

“Not at first, but I think it will, in time.”

Regulus’ skin itched at the ambiguity of Draco’s reply, but he was comforted that if he really wanted to know more, he could ask Hermione. She said she wouldn’t give him any details, but he didn’t need those, he would know how she _felt_ by the look on her face. She was even worse at concealment at Draco, mainly as she didn’t seem particularly minded to try.

“Has she spoken to you yet about… about what happened to her here?”

Regulus ran a hand through his hair and affected a shrug that was too stiff to be convincing. “She will, in time.”

* * *

When Regulus found Kreacher, he was jumping around like an elf half his age, apparently measuring up an ornate, mahogany sideboard.

“As accommodating as our hostess has been, I’m not sure Narcissa has given us leave to take her possessions in the name of refurbishing The Green House.”

Kreacher only broke his enthusiastic movements to give his master a long-suffering glare. “Kreacher is measuring for reference only,” he replied succinctly before his eyes roamed over the sideboards gold and lacquer inlay which left Regulus in no doubt of Kreacher’s feelings on the suitability of the furnishings to be found in Malfoy Manor.

“I am glad I ran into you,” Regulus continued as soon as Kreacher had finished, he knew better than to interrupt the elf when he was busy. “Could we go to my room?”

Kreacher nodded his assent and without warning popped them into their new location. Regulus took the change in his stride and moved over to his dresser to take off his outer robes.

“I wanted your opinion on a matter of… some importance. With our move to the new house now imminent I am conscious that your duties are soon to increase and I do not want you to be overworked. I understand that you are… _fond_ of caring for Miss Granger, so I wondered whether it might be best to get her an elf of her own, someone to watch over her and see to her needs?”

Kreacher stared at him, unblinkingly for a moment before he replied. “It is Kreacher’s duty to serve… Miss Granger.”

“I don’t think of it as a duty Kreacher,” Regulus replied as he sat down on the edge of the bed so he could be closer to Kreacher’s height. “I am not upset with you, in fact, I would have asked for your assistance had you not freely done so before I asked, but I think it might be best if we engage another elf.”

Regulus knew he had lost the battle before it had begun when Kreacher’s small arms crossed over his chest and he drew up his spine, so he was at his full height.

“Kreacher will continue to care for Miss Granger. Miss Granger is a kind witch. Miss Granger did something for Kreacher, the biggest thing, the _only_ thing and Kreacher will repay her.”

“I understand,” Regulus replied kindly, “but you can’t boss her around as you do me, you do not have the same relationship with her.”

Kreacher huffed, and Regulus got the firm impression that had his elf suddenly rematerialised before him into a young witch he would have had his hand out examining his fingernails with smug indifference.

“Miss Granger invited Kreacher to her house for dinner. Miss Granger wants Kreacher’s opinion and guidance on work for the Ministry.”

“Does she indeed?” Regulus replied as a smile crept onto his face. “Well, I can see you’ve become even more important since we last spoke, I best leave you to your other engagements, but if you could see me before you leave? I have a note I would like to send to Miss Granger.”

* * *

Hermione was sat on one of the tall stools at her breakfast bar, shaking her head at Kreacher with a fond expression on her face. She had invited the wizened old elf over to her home - for once he wasn’t just letting himself in and rearranging her cutlery or some other such task she would be told was urgent - so she could ask him some questions about the lives and practises of his kind, but he had taken over the hosting role rather quickly.

After Kreacher had shooed her away from the kettle, Hermione had decided to give up her protests and tuck into the biscuits that he had brought along from the Malfoy Manor kitchens. As soon as she had taken a single bite, Hermione had admitted that they were a lot nicer than the ones she had bought for the occasion and Kreacher had looked at her as if he couldn’t believe the matter would have ever been in question.

When they got down to business Kreacher seemed slightly horrified by the idea of an elf not enjoying his servitude - seemingly the few months of Regulus being back had chased away the elf’s memories of looking after them while they were on the run - but after a while, he seemed to calm as Hermione continued to labour the point that she was purposefully asking his advice due to his pedigree, experience and excellent connections.

Once Hermione had explained, for the third time, why she thought _some_ elves might wish to complain, Kreacher stood on the stool that he had been perched on at patted the top of her head.

“Master Regulus always cared about Kreacher and other elves. Kreacher should have known you would, Miss Hermione.”

Hermione tried to ignore the ongoing comments about her likeness to the little elf’s master and instead focused on what he did say that was useful for her proposal for reform. It was a hard task, especially when he occasionally broke off in the middle of a sentence to stare at her wistfully. Hermione imagined that now that she had brought Regulus back from the dead, she would never be able to do anything that would dim her light in Kreacher’s eyes. It renewed the anger she felt behind her cause, _how could anyone take such devotion and manipulate the kindness of one of these creatures?_

After dinner was over, Hermione eventually won the battle to do the dishes, but before she could get there, Kreacher held her back.

“Kreacher nearly forgot,” he said as he reached into his tunic and pulled out an envelope with an ornate seal.

_Miss Granger,_

_First, he brings you your tea and now you are having a private dinner together? I feel I made my feelings on you being ‘set up’ with any wizard of my acquaintance perfectly clear, should I have been more specific with regards to my elf?_

_Treat him kindly, Miss Granger, he is family to me._

_Sincerely yours,  
_ _Mr Regulus Arcturus Black_

Kreacher looked over Hermione’s shoulder and smiled a toothy smile before popping open the kettle to refill it. “Master Regulus always be such a good boy.”

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled and tucked the folded up parchment into her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The next chapter features a sit down with Regulus and Kingsley, the beginning of Hermione’s last term, the return of Regulus’ painted ancestor and mention of an upcoming gathering that will put all of our players in the same room. Yikes!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For clarity, large sections in italics indicate flashback sequences.

Hermione sat opposite Finola Arista Bateson in her pokey office and tried not to fidget as her boss looked over the paperwork she had finished. She didn’t think she would ever come to terms with a woman like Finola, someone she had admired for the longest time, working in a place like this. However, not even the peeling wallpaper and wilting pot plants could take away from the department head’s intimidating presence; it was even possible that the Ministry insisted on them being present, to give her employees a fighting chance to not pass out from the weight of her expectation alone. 

Hermione wondered how Finola had gotten along with Professor McGonagall when she had been at school. Knowing the headmistress, she had either been one of her darlings or someone she liked to but heads with. Hermione couldn’t imagine Finola being subservient to anyone, but then again, she supposed everyone was a child once. 

At length, Finola turned over the last page in the concise report and nodded before adding the bound stack to her outgoing pile. Hermione covered her mouth with the pretence of a cough to better conceal her relieved sigh.

Finola set down her quill and interlinked her fingers, resting her hands on top of her overburdened desk. “Well, Hermione, I believe that was the last of your assigned tasks. How about you get an early exit? After lunch, perhaps? I’m sure you have things you need to do before your return to school.”

It was true enough; Hermione had _a lot_ to do before she returned to Hogwarts. She had been completely neglecting everything else so she could focus entirely on her internship for the last four days. Hermione’s first thought was to protest, but she knew she would never be able to get something new completed in a single afternoon, and she did have an unbelievable amount of washing. “If you are sure you don’t need me that would be lovely,” she replied, hoping she sounded as grateful as she felt. 

Finola smiled. “I’m sure we’ll manage, though we have benefited from your assistance over the last two weeks. I was sceptical about having an intern. It is a process we have not undertaken for several years in this department.”

“I’m happy to have been a help.”

“That you have been,” Finola replied, “and now as our time together has come to an end I wonder if you would permit me to do the same? How do you feel about frank feedback?”

“I would appreciate it very much,” Hermione replied eagerly while fighting a visible wince. 

“I thought as much,” Finola observed with a wry look. “Hermione, I took you on as a favour to Kingsley. When I met him before your arrival he told me this was your _dream department_ and honestly I scoffed, but I agreed anyway as over the course of my relationship with the Minister I have learnt two things; first that he never outright lies and second that he genuinely cares about the people around him and so I concluded that he would not have made the suggestion if he did not believe there was to be some mutual benefit.

I expected you to be like all the others we had taken in before, happy to smile and play along but in reality looking for an easy way to leapfrog into another, more prosperous, more advantageous department. You care, Hermione, deeply in fact… Maybe even _too much_.”

“Thank you,” Hermione replied cautiously, “I think?”

“There was a compliment in there I assure you,” Finola clarified with a laugh, “but a warning too. Our world isn't changed by idealists, Hermione, however much we might wish it. If you want to succeed in the Ministry and make a difference, you need to embrace a more strategic way of thinking, one where you can properly see the big picture that is being comprised of a hundred small moves. This would be essential to anyone, but especially to those that intend on working within the lower ranking departments.”

Hermione nodded and twisted the hem of her skirt in her hand.

Finola looked up at the clock and shuffled one of the disorganised stacks of parchment on her desk. “My door is always open to you and with your schooling ending soon I feel it goes without saying that we would hire you in a heartbeat, but I think you should consider your options.”

“Thank you for the advice. I appreciate it.” Hermione forced the words out before she could fill the sudden silence with more questions. Finola had hit a bit of a nerve and Hermione was sure she knew it. She hadn’t said anything that Hermione hadn’t already considered herself - there was a wealth of difference between dreaming your dream and living it - but, even so, to Hermione it felt a little too close to a rejection for her to be entirely comforted. That was the problem with being smarter than everyone you went to school with, Hermione felt she had become somewhat dependant on the constant praise of the adults and authority figures around her, it went some way to making up for the neglect from her peers. 

Finola stood from behind the desk and walked over to the low shelf where she kept the legislation reform the team were currently working on. She picked up a large blue file that Hermione instantly recognised as the House Elf amendment she and Howard had presented a couple of days before. 

“We would be grateful if you would return when this gets put before the Wizengamot. It always looks good for us when we arrive mob-handed. I’m sure some of the dusty old conservatives forget we exist from time to time.”

“You've decided to run it?” Hermione asked, trying to hold back on some of the excitement she felt. Finola was not one for histrionics. She hadn’t come this far to ruin it all in the last hour of her internship by squealing and jumping up and down. Even is she was _desperate_ to do so. 

“I have. It's a well thought out approach and an opener into what will become an ongoing tariff or reforms over the coming years.” Finola passed Hermione the file. “I’ve made you a copy so that you can refresh yourself ahead of the presentation. This has your fingerprints all over it, Hermione, you should see it reach its conclusion.”

“I would love to,” Hermione happily agreed. “When do you think it will be in front of the Wizengamot?”

Finola shrugged. “You never can tell, but as this is a new addendum to a bill that is low on the current political agenda, we can assume it will be quicker than many. We will let you know.”

“I will make myself available. And while I have the opportunity, I wanted to say thank you, for everything.”

“You are very welcome, Hermione.”

Hermione stood on slightly trembly legs and got out and closed the door behind her before she could do something silly, like collapse on the floor or hug the piece of legislation she had helped draft to her chest, like a newborn baby. 

“You survive without crying?” Matty asked, appearing at her side as Hermione gathered herself against the wall. 

“Did you think she was going to take me down a peg or something?” Hermione asked, incredulously.

Matty snorted. “No, I thought she was going to tell you your brilliant and that you'd be so overcome from the praise of one of your heroes that you would burst into grateful tears.”

Hermione was a little annoyed at how quickly he had learned to read her, and so she took a leaf out of Pansy’s book and covered her discomfort with self-assurance, superiority and sarcasm. 

“People tell me I’m amazing all the time. I’ve rather gotten used to it over the years.”

Matty barked out a laugh. “That doesn’t work for you, you know? I think when playing the princess, your face isn’t supposed to show how unsure you are.”

“You are so mean to me.”

“It’s my last day with you here, and I have to fit in weeks of prodding. Come on, let's get some food.”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed, following behind. 

Matty turned and pulled at the stack of papers that were still in her grasp. “No, the legislation is not invited, I wanted a conversation, there's no way I’ll get that with you cooing all over your hard work.”

“Spoilsport,” Hermione snarked, but put the paper down as instructed.

“Save it till you get home, Granger,” Matty advised. “Then you can read it and re-read it to your heart's content before tucking it up in bed next to you, and no one will be there to judge.”

* * *

Hermione nodded at a ministry employee she had seen in the canteen almost every day since she had arrived. They had never spoken, and so she had no idea what his name was, let alone what he did there, but after they had bumped into each other for a third time the week before it had seemed rude to continue on as if neither were aware the other existed, so now they nodded. Harry told her this was part of working in what was essentially a huge office, Hermione hated it. 

Hermione eyed her dry lasagne with resignation and decided to be liberal with the little sachets of seasoning she had brought from home. “You know Matty, when you asked to take me to lunch I was expecting something better than the ministry canteen.”

Matty stopped cutting into his pie - having to push so hard on the blunt cutlery that his finger was turning white - to stare at her in mock affront. “Firstly, I can't believe you got such an impression after knowing me for two weeks. I ate a week-old, unclaimed sandwich from the department fridge right in front of you, and we were pretty sure it had been left by the cleaner who is off with Spattergroit.”

“Don’t remind me,” Hermione shuddered. “It was a cheese sandwich Matty, who risks their life for a cheese sandwich?”

“I was hungry, and anyway, I could have taken you to one of those fancy places on the Alley, but you know you would have moaned about feeling _uncomfortable_ and not knowing what to order. Deep down, you’re a cheap girl Hermione, and I’m a cheap boy.”

“A love story for the ages,” Hermione said with a laugh as she stabbed at her over cooked pasta and Matty shrugged. 

“Should have been. I don’t mean to sound all, you know… predatory-”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “As if you could.”

“-but I thought I would be really attracted to you until I got to know you. No, I didn’t… that didn’t come out how I planned. What I meant was-”

Hermione waved him off before he could dig himself a hole he would never get out of. “Don’t worry, I get it, I’m surrounded by men that don’t find me a viable romantic option.”

“Apart from dark and dangerous,” Matty corrected with a knowing grin.

“Well, he’s not really _around_ me, per se.” 

“That’s because he wants to be on top of you.”

Hermione coughed on her drink and had to take several heaving gasps before she was convinced she wasn’t about to bring up her pumpkin juice. “Could you please stop!” she spluttered. “Do you have any idea how… how _inappropriate_ it is to discuss such things in the ministry canteen _of all places_  Anyone could be listening in and-” mid-rant, Hermione realised that she had lost Matty’s attention. The apples of his cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be struggling to figure out how to use his fork. Matty was flustered, which was so unusual Hermione decided against hitting him for his inattention and followed his gaze. 

“Who is that?” she asked curiously as she began to cut her lasagne up into neat squares. 

Matty swallowed his food and shrugged, unconvincingly. “It’s um… Robin, Robin Oliver, she’s new here, emigrated from Canada, she works in the department of records.”

“Does she indeed,” Hermione replied, masking her interest. It was rather telling that despite ‘Robin, Robin Oliver’s’ newness at the ministry, Matty had already progressed past her own nodding relationship with a wizard she had seen every day for two weeks. Hermione was given to understand that there were only two reasons people went out of their way to get to know someone they didn’t directly work with ‘at the office’ and Matty certainly wasn’t pursuing a promotion.  “How do you know her?”

“Bumped into each other a few times and then she was at the pub last Friday,” Matty admitted without making eye contact. 

“The pub you go to is a bit off the beaten track, funny that of all the ones she could have appeared at, she chose that one.”

Matty’s eyes narrowed. “Do people often tell you how irritating your nosiness is?”

“They do, but then, those people are often very interested in the goings on in my life, so they can’t really comment.”

The two friends stared each other down, but Matty looked away first, Hermione considered it a victory. 

“I may have mentioned to her that we go there,” Matty admitted, sulking a little.

“So, you like her?”

“I suppose,” he said casually, but his repeated glances at the object of their conversation revealed his true feelings. 

“Are you planning to do anything about it?” Hermione asked, feeling very much like she was back at school, years before, badgering Harry. First, it had been over his mopping about Cho, and then when he hadn’t seemed to want to pursue Ginny, despite staring at her for the best part of a year. 

“Maybe,” Matty replied non-comitally, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She understood full well that part of having a crush often meant pain, it was the lack of certainty, the chance of humiliation, but it was supposed to be fun too! One of the things she had missed most during her childhood was the chance to develop senseless crushes like the rest of her peers - apart from Ron, and that was best left in the past - _why did men always make it seem like the worst thing in the world?_

“Like what?” she pressed, stopping herself from reaching across the table and stabbing him with her fork.

Matty huffed and took a bite of his brownie. “Not all men are like your vampiric shadow; some of us tend to use less artful ways of getting a witch’s attention. Like getting drunk and declaring their undying love.”

“Maybe just ask her out for a drink?”

“Maybe,” Matty conceded before forcibly straightened in his seat to face her. “Anyway, speaking of doomed love, how is the ridiculously aptly named Mr Black?” 

“Writing me flirtatious letters,” Hermione admitted and then bit her lip to hold back a bubble of nervous laughter. She hadn’t shown anyone else the note, Pansy would have scoffed, Harry would have been horrified, and Luna and Ginny were both away. Matty was safe, and he was removed from her immediate friendship groups and loyal enough not to repeat anything unless he had her express permission. 

Matty paused while his fork was still on the way to his mouth. “You’re kidding?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not.”

“Of course that fucker is writing you letters, he’s like a man from another time.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied with exasperation, “as I keep telling you, he is _exactly_ that.”

As usual, Matty wasn’t listening. “I can see it now, _my dearest, loveliest, Hermione, it has been many moons since I have seen the soft contours of your oh so darling face_.”

“Are you done?” she chastised, stealing a piece of his brownie. “He wasn’t _that_ flirtatious. He doesn’t even call me by my first name. He's a pureblood wizard sending a letter to a witch of his acquaintance, not an early 19th-century poet writing to his mistress. Your English accent is getting better though.”

“Thank you,” Matty beamed, “I’ve been practising.”

“Whatever for?”

“Don’t change the subject! This is finally getting good. If the letters are not romantically flirtatious are they sexy? Come on you have to tell, you’re leaving me, it's only fair.”

“I’m not telling you,” Hermione protested, “and anyway ‘sexy’ is a relative term.”

Matty grinned, a broad, pleased smile. “Which means they were.”

“It was just the one,” Hermione clarified.

“If you say so.”

“It could mean nothing.”

Matty used his fork to point at her. “You're going to end up married to him. You mark my words; I’m never wrong about these things.”

Hermione drew her arms across her chest. “You saw us together _once_ , how could you possibly know that?”

“Chemistry,” Matty said, as if it was obvious. 

"Right,” Hermione scoffed. 

“Of course, doubt my genius, but you'll see the light in the end, they always do,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Chemistry,” he continued in a whisper, adding jazz hands to heighten the effect. 

“I'm going to miss you, you total buffoon.”

“I'm going to miss you too little miss perfect.”

Matty dropped his fork and glanced around the room, once again locking eyes with Miss Oliver. The blonde smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear before giving him a wave, which he returned in a rather dopey fashion. 

“Oh, I don't think I’m _that_ perfect, at least not in your eyes,” Hermione teased, and Matty threw his uneaten bread roll right at her head. 

* * *

A soft, very familiar bell sounded throughout the train carriages, and the gathered together girls paused in their enthusiastic conversation to get ready for when they would depart at Hogsmeade. 

Hermione fumbled with her pleated skirt and secured the last clasp before she pulled on her robe. It felt even stranger to be in a school uniform after the last few weeks. She had a flinch of regret that she had essentially put her life on pause to return to Hogwarts when she could have been out living in the world, like Harry and Ron. The feeling passed quickly. Ridiculous school girl costume aside, Hermione knew school was where she should be. She had needed this after the war, and despite her boredom and frustration with her sense of arrested development, it had been good for her. 

As she regarded the rest of the girls in the carriage, she knew the last year had changed her life in more ways than she had yet acknowledged. If she had not come back she might not have connected with Luna so tightly, she would have still have seen the dreamy Ravenclaw, but they might have become acquaintances who only saw each other at significant events. 

She would never have had any relationship with Pansy if she had not returned, and Hermione now knew she would be sorry for it. Pansy had settled in for her ‘trial run’, and they’d had no real issues, not that Hermione had foreseen any, they had lived together for weeks on end after all. Her snarky friend had even tolerated Hermione’s increasing absence from home as she had raced to complete what was needed for her internship. 

Hermione sat back down as Ginny threw herself into her seat and continued another story from her training camp. It was wonderful to see her so vibrant and excited for what life would be like once they graduated. 

Hermione watched the steam billow past the windows as she had on her first ever journey on the Express. Her mind had been so full of wonder, and she had poured over her copy of Hogwarts a History and imagined every possible scenario of what would be, and what would become of her life. Now it was the final term, and though Hermione had wished for it, now that it was here she felt she needed more time. 

She had come to a monumental decision over the past three days, it was the only free time she’d had, and she’d spent it considering her experience at the ministry along with Finola’s words of advice. Hermione had tried to piece together fragments of guidance that her mother had given her over the years, but she drew a blank. _Maybe that was her curse? They could not think of her so she would be unable to think of them._ Hermione sighed and locked away the pain, now was not the time for more regret; she had to steal her resolve to convince people of her choice.

In the end, her decision had come about when she remembered her conversations with Harry, while they had been left on the run. When they’d had no more energy to talk about the Horcrux hunt, they would sit huddled together and exchange dreams, imaginings of what they would do if they survived. Harry’s wishes were always simple; he wanted to get married, have children and rebuild the family that had been taken away from him. Hermione supposed her wants had been simple too. Even though by that point working at the ministry in some capacity or other had seemed like a foregone conclusion, that was never what she said in those long, lonely moments. She had told Harry time and time again how she would get a little flat somewhere, somewhere quiet and peaceful and she would start training to become a healer.

It was a less grand plan in many ways, but now the cloud of her indecision was dissipating, Hermione was beginning to fully appreciate how such a role would suit her much better. The changes she would be able to implement would be more immediate, which would be better for her impatience than drawn out law making and as a Healer she would have specific authority, once she was fully trained, which suited her bossiness. 

Hermione rested her head back against the cushioned headrest and watched Luna pull out a series of letters from Rolf. She had no doubt they would be descriptive, flowery and excessively flattering. Hermione was delighted for her friend, but for herself, she felt that once you had heard one of Rolf’s letters you had heard them all. 

As Pansy snatched up some of the pages to study particular lines, Ginny pulled out her letters from Harry to laugh at their comparison. Harry was as romantic as an overturned lorry, and more concise than Luna’s partner was ever likely to be, yet there was an earnestness in all of his communications with Ginny that made Hermione smile. Harry was trying, and if he hadn’t been exactly who he was, he wouldn’t have been the right man for Ginny, who had come a long way since her rhyming Valentine days. 

Hermione considered the short note tucked away in the inside pocket of her robe and she believed that if she had never come back to Hogwarts, there would be no Regulus either. She couldn't imagine that the girls would have got together and performed such a spell if they had been at home and left to their own devices. It had been the sense of missed nostalgia that had caused them to act as such, and that would not have been triggered outside of a school dormitory.

Despite the trouble it had caused, and the trouble still likely to come, Hermione found she could not regret that either, and not just because she felt life had dealt Regulus a cruel hand and he deserved a second chance. Her reasons were much more personally motivated now, though she couldn’t entirely give them a name, not yet at least. 

* * *

Regulus sat with a carefully considered idle expression, pushed back into his chair with his ankle resting against his knee. His father had always sat thus in meetings of importance, and he had told Regulus that it made him look more dominant, stretching out his long limbs to appear imposing and yet keeping his frame relaxed to convey his lack of concern. Regulus felt in need of such a stance today, sitting as he was opposite the Minister for Magic. 

Regulus, as usual, had dressed with care, wanting to communicate his rank and position in the world without words. Though it was hard to stand out in the office Kingsley had set up for himself. The room was rather lavish for an elected official, with none of the tweeting and ticking oddities that Dumbledore had used to dress his own seat of power. The Minister choose to cover his room in deep silks and intricate upholstery that put Regulus in mind of a Bedouin palace. He shouldn’t have been surprised, Kinsley always did have a passion for flamboyance, but to Regulus’ sartorial eye no one should ever wear that much velvet. 

Kinglsey had aged well, especially considering he had lived through two wars on the side of the revolution - the resistant underground wasn’t known for its five-star service - but to Regulus he would always be the Gryffindor with half his shirt untucked, walking to his next class while staring into a book. The girls at Hogwarts had thought Kinglsey Shacklebolt was ‘mysterious’ because he spoke to rarely. Regulus felt he knew better; to him, Kingsley was stoic because he thought himself above his peers. That in itself wasn’t a reason to hate him, Regulus had practically reinvented that level of self-belief, but he had other causes. 

On the other side of the desk, the Minister sat in a grandiose version of an office chair, and the last of the required reinstatement papers sat between them. Kinglsey had so far managed to drag out the charade of a meeting for half an hour before he finally added his flouncy signature to the last page.

Signature finally in place, the Minister began making a show of filling them into a particular order, and Regulus aided the biting back of his mounting frustration by eyeing each item in the office in turn and conveying his disapproval with all of it with his steely gaze. 

“I think that’s everything,” Shacklebolt said finally and placed the papers in a stack before handing Regulus the magically conjured copies. However, if Regulus had thought that would be the end of it, he was mistaken. 

“Before you go,” Kingsley said before straightened in his chair, “I wanted to talk to you about Hermione.”

“Miss Granger?” Regulus asked, conveying a sense of familiarity in the tone of his voice if not his choice of epithet. “What could you possibly want to talk about with regards to her?”

The tension in the room had been ratcheting since he arrived, and finally, Regulus knew why. He hadn't expected the Minister to bring up Hermione, though he had known they were close, to an extent. But then, Kingsley had always been there before, whenever there was a damsel in distress.

-/-/-/-

_Regulus brushed his thumb over Alara’s flushed cheek and caught her single tear track before it hit her jawline._

_“Regulus, please,” she appealed and stared into his eyes imploringly._

_Regulus knew how much it would have cost her pride to do so, and he cursed himself again for getting involved with the witch in the first place. He had known it would have to end like this; there was no other way. The mark was now on his arm, and no one around him was safe. Alara’s blood might have been pure, but his Lord’s punishments were becoming more… creative. Who knew what would happen if it became known that he had a girlfriend? He imagined she could be used as an… incentive to ensure his good behaviour. The thought made Regulus sick to his stomach._

_“I’m sorry,” he replied, in cold voice he didn’t even recognise as his own. “I’m afraid it cannot go any further, my mother insists that I marry soon and I can’t be seen to be spending time with other witches while I court my future wife.”_

_Alara reared back as if she had been slapped and Regulus schooled his features to conceal his guilt. They hadn’t been together long enough for her to seriously be expecting a proposal, but to be eliminated so callously would have been painful. Regulus had intended it to be so, after all. Better for her to hate him for being heartless than leave the reasons hanging wide and open like a void that would never close. He couldn’t tell her the real reason; her family were delightfully neutral in all that was coming, hence her appeal in the first place._

_When he walked away, Regulus heard a sob, his steps faulted for a moment before he continued down the corridor and did not look back._

_-/-/-/-_

_The next time he saw Alara, he couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to. Two days later he had rounded a corner, walking quicker than usual to get to Herbology, he had been caught in the corridor by a snarling Sirius who had all but demanded to see his arm. Regulus had hissed back at him and fought him off, and without his little marauder buddies there to help, Sirius had slunk off as soon as Regulus began abusing his former brother verbally. Sirius had always been better with his fists than his mouth. At that point in time, Regulus would rather have exchanged blows than have another argument with Sirius. The bruises healed quicker. But in that, like in everything else, he had no choice._

_Alara was there as Regulus turned the corridor and she wasn’t alone. There with her in an alcove almost wholly covered by a large tapestry was Kinglsey Shacklbolt. The kind of activity they were engaged in was as clear from their jerky movements as their pinched faces and Regulus cursed the boy as much as his luck. Two minutes later and he would have missed it, he wouldn’t have seen if he had taken a wider line in the corridor and yet he had seen it, and what’s more, Kingsley knew it._

_-/-/-/-_

_Later that day Kingsley caught up with him while the students were filing out of the Great Hall after dinner and rather than trying to smooth out any ruffled feathers Shacklebolt had the gall to be on the attack._

_“Alara, you know, she was pretty upset. You treated her poorly.”_

_“But you were there to pick up the pieces, weren’t you Kingsley?”_

_“What does it matter to you? You dumped her; it’s a bit rich that you’ve decided to become possessive after the fact.”_

_“It’s not possessiveness you bloody fool, she could sleep with half the castle for all I care, but she deserved better than that.”_

_Kingsley scoffed. “Better than you certainly.”_

_“I usually wait for their tears to dry before I try and fuck them Shacklebolt, you can pretend your well used conciliatory shoulder makes you a good man, but it doesn’t.”_

_“The Death Eater giving out lessons on morality? Do you have any idea how contradictory that is.”_

_“If they are needed, I don’t see what would prevent me from teaching you whatever lesson I see fit.”_

_“You do not deny it then? Sirius said you’d turned traitor.”_

_“Well, he would know.”_

-/-/-/-

For the sake of some much-needed expediency, and getting out of the office without killing anyone, Regulus decided to ignore the Minister’s comment about Hermione. He had less than no interest in anything the man had to say on the matter. 

“Thank you for finally doing the necessary, Shacklebolt. I have an appointment at Gringotts this afternoon, and while there I will be opening up the Black family vaults. Once that has been completed I plan to take my seat on the Wizengamot, please take this as my formal notice of such.”

Kingsley did not look happy with his pronouncement. “Do you think that's wise?” he asked with a hint of scorn, Regulus merely raised an eyebrow. 

“You have travelled twenty years through time; you’re even more out of touch than your family normally are, and you will be sitting with a group of people that have all suffered great losses to get to where we are today.”

Regulus snapped forward and pulled at the collar of his shirt, exposing the beginnings of the hacked, claw-like scaring that lined his upper body. “Do not speak to me of sacrifice. I do not doubt that I will have suffered more than many in that chamber. The Black family house is both ancient and noble, and it will be recognised by the Wizengamot. How are they taking to your leadership by the way? Shacklebolt isn’t exactly synonymous with greatness.”

Kinglsey’s teeth clenched, but he didn’t respond, and Regulus began to wonder if twenty years of ageing had finally gotten the man to grow up past the point where he would react to every barb thrown at him in precisely the way Regulus wanted him too. 

“All the same,” the Minister gritted out, “it will have to be considered, the seat is currently closed, and we offered representation to a wider reach of families when the chamber reopened after the war.”

Regulus sneered. “You have no power to remove my birthright, whatever title has been bestowed on you. You rule with the blessing of the Lord’s of this land, and not without it.”

“The world has changed,” Kinsley replied with a mocking grin, “your former Lord has fallen.”

Regulus turned his hand to inspect his fingernails. “Yours too, rather literally in Dumbledore’s case from what I heard. Pity that, though I suppose he would have appreciated a dramatic end, it would have suited the man he was.”

Kingsley stiffened, and Regulus tried not to laugh. “Merlin, you're still an insufferable prick,” the Minister spat.

“As you know, I haven't changed at all; I’m quite the same as I was back then. You, however, all those battles, all of this power and yet up close Kingsley, you’re still just as forgettable as ever.” 

“Watch your tone, I'm the Minister for Magic,” Kingsley boomed, and Regulus was rather impressed when a lamp began to shake.

 “So you are,” he conceded, “I have no problem believing it, as I’m sure you understand my respect for positions of authority has been quite cursed into me. However, in this case, it’s not the position I have a problem with, but the man sitting in it.”

"Is that an official challenge?” the Minister snapped as he pushed himself away from his desk and sunk his hand into his robes. 

Regulus tutted. “Careful Kingsley, it really wouldn't do to draw your wand on a wizard, such as myself, in your office. At the very least, it's incredibly unprofessional.”

Regulus drew himself up from his chair and picked up his papers. “Thank you for your time, Minister, I would say it’s been fun, but I think we would both know I was lying.”

Kinsgley muttered something under his breath as he stood and walked around the desk. “We haven’t finished. I called you here for a reason. Merlin knows I didn’t want you in my office and I could have posted the letters, but I needed to have you here to look you in the eyes.”

The Minister crossed the room and loomed over Regulus, drawing himself up, so he stood taller. “You stay away from Hermione, Black, you’re no good for her, that’s what I wanted to say, and now our business is over you can go.”

“Hermione Black, now that has a rather nice ring to it,” Regulus observed as he took a step towards the door. 

Kingsley scoffed, and Regulus turned on his heel with his hand still on the door handle. 

“Oh, fuck off, _Reggie_ ,” the Minister mocked, “as if you are going to marry her! You’ll use her up and then throw her away when she’s no longer of use to you like you do with everyone else.”

Regulus shook off the use of the childhood nickname he hated and stared at Kingsley with as neutral an expression as he could muster. “You know I can't quite decide if you’re trying to bait me into perusing her, because you think it will end badly and then you can pick up the pieces?” Kingsley’s jaw tightened both with memory and a whisper of revolution at the idea which made the knots in Regulus’ back diminish. “Maybe not,” he observed aloud. “I'll admit I am relieved. I would have hated to tell Hermione about the ulterior motives of someone she respects so much.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Kinsley barked. “I’m concerned for her. She's too good. She's been through too much. She deserves _more_ than you.”

Suddenly Regulus wasn’t having quite as much fun as he had been. He’d inherited the Black streak for mischief in spades, and he had never been able to resist winding up men like Shacklebolt. Men that were already so tightly coiled that it didn’t take much prodding to make them snap. But the Minister’s warnings about Hermione took the edge off his amusement. Regulus didn’t like being told what to do, but it was more than that, he didn’t care for the idea of _anyone_ assuming responsibility for her, paternally motivated or otherwise. 

“Give up the concerned father act,” Regulus spat. “You do not have that role, and even if she allowed it, your belated care wouldn't begin to make up for what you allowed to happen. At least when I was nearly dragged under by Inferius I was there under my own steam, no master commanded me. Can’t say the same for Miss Granger, can you? Mr Potter neither - I take it that's why he and his little sidekick are the first students ever to be fast-tracked into the Auror squad? Was that your version of making it up to them? Of course, that would be the way of the light, give them another gift that could end up getting them killed, I’m sure them being draped in ministry colours and doing it all for the greater good will make for excellent copy.”

“Get out of my office,” Kingsley said with finality and Regulus gripped the door handle so hard he was in danger of tearing it off. 

“Gladly,” he replied with contempt but paused before he walked out. “Work through your own regrets and stay out of my way, Kingsley. Otherwise, the only pieces left behind will be yours.”

* * *

Regulus apparated to the outside of his new home and walked through the front door, more for the novelty of it than anything else. He had been visiting for weeks, but always through the floo. It was pleasant to see the visage that would be presented to any guests he received. 

He was back from seeing the Goblins largely unscathed, predictably his time at the bank had gone far more smoothly than his meeting at the Ministry. All that had been required to secure what he needed was a vial of blood, rather painfully extracted. Regulus found he had no cause to repine, while Goblin methods might have been brutal they were undoubtedly expedient. 

Within the hour he had been able to restore the funds Narcissa had graciously bestowed upon him when he had arrived in her home and consolidated a series of accounts that had been left behind by the now perished members of his formerly fallen house. He had given notice to Kreacher that the vaults were now back open, and his elf had crossed paths with him as he left, no doubt wasting no time in selecting certain items to add to the property. Regulus knew Kreacher was saddened by the lack of the family crest about the place. 

For himself, Regulus was unconcerned by furniture of any nature however he did make a trip to the storage vault for an item he had promised to procure as soon as possible. Clutched between his fingers, wrapped in sturdy brown paper, was a duplicate portrait of Phineas. 

He walked towards his study, as that was where he intended to instal his ancestor, though on arrival he decided to leave it for a few hours, it would be an excellent opportunity to enjoy the space on his own before he received a constant stream of commentary on his every move and decision. 

Regulus leafed through his post and managed to smile at the lack of return note from Hermione. It had been a few days, and he had wondered if she would take the opportunity since he had given her an opening. Though he hadn’t expected a reply, he imagined his tone of address would have confused her as much as  - he hoped - pleased her. Hermione for all of her intellect was an emotional person and was likely someone that would deal with his advanced interest better in person than in letter form. Which was something of a drawback when considering how best to proceed, as Regulus felt he was much better at expressing himself in letter form. Notes to the Dark Lord aside. 

Regulus was starting a review of the current legal standing of each house when Narcissa walked in. He may have been deliberately prodding the Minister for his amusement earlier, but he had been serious about reclaiming his seat, the future of the House of Black depended on its power. 

“You know, with your ability to appear at any moment it is very much like I haven’t left Malfoy Manor,” he observed dryly and pushed aside his work. 

Narcissa’s nose wrinkled. “There is not nearly enough silver around and about for this to be a Malfoy residence, Lucius would find the over dark furniture unbearably oppressive.”

Regulus conceded that Narcissa had the right of it and gestured to a chair in front of his desk.  “What can I do for you? I am assuming this isn't about the furnishings, Draco perhaps?”

“No, Draco is… I’m not sure how to describe it best. Draco is in stasis at the moment. He is not getting better, but he is not falling further. I suppose staying the same is its own form of progress.”

Regulus watched the way her slim fingers wrang together; it was a tell that only occurred when she talked of her son and one she would never have had when they were together before he disappeared into that cave. Then again, his cousin was different in so many little ways from the young woman he knew, the war had weathered her, but Lucius absence was the real trial.

“What can I do for you?”

Narcissa crossed her legs and straightened her skirt. “I understand that you saw Shacklebolt today.”

“I did,” Regulus confirmed, and Narcissa’s countenance instantly brightened. 

“Excellent, then there is no further reason to delay.”

“What exactly are you referring to?” he asked, his trepidation rising as her excitement visibly grew. An eager Narcissa Malfoy was a dangerous Narcissa Malfoy. 

“A ball,” she replied infuriatingly succinctly, and Regulus got the feeling he was about to be _managed_.  

“A ball?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod, “you must announce your arrival to all of wizarding society, and do so in a way that shows you in the most favourable light. You are the patriarch now, and there are standards to reinstate.”

Regulus held up the parchment he had been working on prior to her arrival. “I had thought to spend this time in preparation for the first Wizengamot session I can attend, is that not a better endeavour?”

“No.”

“That was definitive.”

“It needed to be, your question was ridiculously stupid. You already know which way you would vote on any issues in session. You only need to reacquaint yourself with the more modern landscape, which should not take long, beneath the surface, things have changed very little.” 

“Still, I’m not sure if it is necessary,” Regulus replied, though he knew he was forestalling the inevitable. “It seems lavish and is it not a bit crass? To throw a party to celebrate coming back from the dead?”

“Who would know?” Narcissa replied, brushing her long hair over her shoulder. “Would you rather the Prophet posted an article before you can make any kind of statement? This way, you can control the narrative and start as you mean to go on. Press is always important, but more so than ever in these times, and not only that there are further considerations that must be addressed sooner rather than later.”

“Such as?”

“You need to further the line,” Narcissa said and just for a moment, if Regulus had been closing his eyes he would have thought his mother was sitting across from him. 

Regulus snorted. “And this is done at balls now? Times really have changed.”

“Don't be inelegant,” she chastised before pausing, giving him time to think on her proposition before she rammed her point home. “The house must continue Regulus, this falls to you,” and there it was. The worst part was, she was right.

“I am keenly aware of my responsibilities, Narcissa,” Regulus sighed. “But I see your point. It would be easier to meet all the key players at once. I imagine you have a date and a suitable guest list in mind?” Narcissa shuffled and produced various sheets of paper from behind her back. “I see my agreement was a formality only.”

Narcissa smiled. “But of course.” 

“Could I at least review who you intend to welcome into my home?” Regulus demanded with no real ire and Narcissa handed over the list for him to scan. 

“When did you intend to send the invites?” he asked idly.

“In a week or so's time.”

Regulus nodded before he picked up his quill and crossed through a single name on the list and handed it back. Narcissa’s eyes fell down the page until she came to his amendment. “Miss Granger?” she asked incredulously, “I cannot believe you do not wish her to be in attendance, she brought about your return-”

“Narcissa,” Regulus tried to interject.

“-You cannot deny you are fond of her; you have shown no interest in getting to know the other girls that were present that night. She will not forgive you if you do not.”

“I am aware,” Regulus replied, shifting in his seat. “However, I feel some invites, _this invite_ , should be delivered personally. I do not wish for her to receive communication merely sent on my behalf.”

“You’re reasoning?”

“Do I need to explain myself to you?”

Narcissa smiled, it was a mean look, and yet it was full of understanding, “No, Regulus, I do not believe that you do.”

* * *

At the end of the second week of the new term was a Hogsmeade weekend, they came more frequently at this time of year when the season was upon them to get out and enjoy as much of the English summertime as possible. Hermione revelled in the feeling of the wind on her face as the students all around her got on with the business of being children. Somehow it almost made up for all that time in that wretched, musty tent to look around and see their unburdened faces. Almost. 

After what was becoming their traditional tour of the small parade of shops the four dorm mates settled into a quiet table at the back of the Three Broomsticks, intending to enjoy the relative freedom for the hour or so they still had before they had to return to the castle. 

They had not had their drinks in front of them more than ten minutes when the large pub door opened, and Regulus Black walked in. Hermione was so used to the man sneaking up on her that she would have enjoyed watching him scan the crowd if she hadn’t been so taken aback by his sudden appearance. She tried to think up any number of reasons that he might have been there, unrelated to her presence, but it was all for nought, a few seconds later he caught her eye and immediately moved in her direction. Hermione didn’t have time to warn any of the others before there he was, standing right next to her and somehow holding a stool that he must have managed to pick up on his way over. 

“Hello, Miss Granger,” he greeted. “Ladies,” he added, addressing the rest of the table. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

As he sat down before she could reply, Hermione thought agreeing was probably a waste of time. Instead, she leant over as soon as he was in his seat. “Isn't this a bit public?” she asked, worried. Already people were beginning to look in their direction, some with interest, others with confusion. The only time they had gone for a drink, after their fateful trip to Spinner’s End, Regulus had insisted they go to a much quieter establishment, far from the well-beaten track.

“I rather believe that's the point,” Regulus replied with a disarming smile, it was the sort of smile a snake would give you while it told you to trust it, right before it ate you whole. “But I see you have not heard, forgive me, I have grown used to Kreacher sharing all my news before I have had a chance,” he replied with sarcasm tinged with uncharacteristic warmth. “I have the completed version of my reinstatement papers; hence, I am now officially back from the dead.”

“Congratulations,” Hermione offered, “if that is what you say in such circumstances.”

“I believe even my mother would have been hard-pressed to tell you what the standardised response would be in such circumstances, so I will accept your good wishes.”

“It’s lovely to see you again, Mr Black,” Luna said, “as you are now free again, myself and my father would love to do an interview with you for The Quibbler. Inferious are such a misunderstood lifeform, don’t you agree?”

Regulus shared some small conversation with the others before he dipped his head at the next available moment. “Do I want to do that?” he asked Hermione in hushed tones, and Hermione smiled to herself. “Oh, yes, I think you do. I think you’d really enjoy meeting Mr Lovegood.” 

The shaking next to her told Hermione that Pansy was managing to stifle her laughter and she almost felt mean, but there was no one better at discombobulating than Xeno and no one more in need of it than Regulus. 

“Not that we aren’t thrilled to be joined by you on our free weekend, Regulus,” Ginny said with her chin propped up in her hand, “but what are you doing here?”

Regulus seemed pleased to be asked and reached into his pocket to share envelopes with each one of them. “Since coming back, I have opened up a new home, and Narcissa is insisting we have a ball to celebrate.”

“To celebrate your new home or your absence from hers?” Hermione asked with a smirk, and Regulus smiled.

“Both I imagine.”

Hermione opened her envelope as Luna asked questions about the gardens at Regulus’ new property; however, she lost track of what was being said around her as she contemplated the contents. 

_Miss Hermione Jean Granger + 1 Guest_

Again Regulus appear closer than he had before and he eyed the invite over her shoulder. “Let me know if you intend to bring someone, for numbers, you understand?”

“Well, I-” Hermione began with a shrug, but Pansy cut her off before she could articulate just how unlikely that was. 

“We’ll let you know,” Pansy said with a satisfied smile. “It's a big decision, who to take to such an event, I’m sure we wouldn’t want to push ourselves into a choice, would we?” she asked Hermione with a warning tone. 

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “Of course, Pansy, I’m sure all the men of your acquaintance are falling over themselves to gain your notice,” he said mockingly, and one again Hermione felt utterly unequal to the sparring match playing out in front of her. 

“Do pass on my compliments on your card stock to Mrs Malfoy,” Pansy said as she lifted the envelope to her nose, “scented invites are such a modern touch. I see you have opted for one that smells like money, with just a whiff of entitlement.”

“A scent I’m sure you recognise with ease, what with it drifting from your every pore,” Regulus replied and Hermione interjected herself before Pansy could get warmed up. 

“Thank you,” she said kindly, loudly enough that she was sure to get Regulus’ attention immediately. “I appreciate the invite, and you’re coming to deliver it.” 

"Well,” he replied, drawing his eyes away from Pansy with a final glare. “I couldn’t be sure of receiving a response otherwise, after all, my last message went unanswered, even after I was assured it was faithfully delivered.”

Despite his words, his tone was playful, at least as playful as Regulus was ever likely to get and Hermione tried to ignore her intense flush, and the three pairs of eyes that landed on her. Regulus noticed the sudden attention of her friends, and he smirked - _the insufferable bastard_. 

“It would appear my work here is done,” he said as he got to his seat. “I look forward to seeing you all at the ball. Hermione, please speak to Kreacher when you wish to return your invite, we wouldn’t want your response getting lost in the post now would we.”

With that he was gone, walking towards the door with as much confidence as was ever seen inside one person and Ginny craned her neck to catch the last sight of him before he disappeared from view. 

“Get a good look, why don’t you?” Hermione gripped, still put out by her earlier embarrassment.

“Jealous?” Ginny snickered.

“Hardly,” Hermione replied with a roll of her eyes. 

“I was just trying to decide if his beauty makes up for his manners,” Ginny explained, before taking a sizeable sip of her drink.

“I like his manners,” Luna admitted as the door closed behind the embodiment of the House of Black and Hermione stared at her friend incredulously.

“You do?”

“There is something forceful about him, not malicious but… it’s hard to explain. I’ve told Rolf I like it when he’s more… commanding, more direct but it doesn't quite have the same effect when I know he’s putting it on for my enjoyment.

“What do you…”

“Moving on,” Hermione insisted in a tone that brokered no refusal but made Ginny laugh.

“Anyway, Regulus Black isn't _that_ hot,” Pansy snarked as she fiddled with condensation clinging to the outside of her bottle. 

Ginny scoffed. “Please, Pansy, you might not _like_ him, but even you have to admit he’s breathtaking.”

Pansy shrugged delicately. “If you say so.”

“Come on. You could cut glass on those cheekbones, not to mention bounce a galleon off his arse,”

“Compared to Harry Potter, just about anyone is worthy of note.”

It was a testament to how far their friendship had come that Ginny didn’t hex Pansy on the spot.

“So, a ball, are we going?” Luna asked excitedly, conveying her own thoughts.

Hermione looked at Pansy who shrugged but didn’t seem overly concerned. “We are,” Hermione agreed.

“I wonder if it will be like the Yule Ball?” Ginny mused.

Hermione sighed. “I hope not.”

“Why?” Pansy interjected. “You went with Viktor sodding Krum, by the way, you don’t talk about that enough if I were you I would have pictures from that night printed on business cards so I could give them out wherever I went.”

“I argued with Ron, and I ended the night not in the arms of an international Quidditch player, but on my own, on the stairs, in tears.”

“Life gives you pearls, and you throw them before swine,” Pansy moaned. “Did you at least get a kiss?”

Hermione felt uncharacteristically cheeky as she grinned. “I might have done.”

Ginny waggled her eyebrows. “Was it good?” 

Hermione swallowed down her discomfort at discussing such things in a group and allowed herself to enjoy the moment she had never been able to have before. “It was like something out of a dream.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes, but Luna looked on eagerly. “Maybe you can top the experience at Regulus’ ball.”

“Or maybe you could just tell him about Viktor, with the same wistful look on his face, and make my evening,” Pansy said, and Hermione giggled at her ridiculousness. 

“I doubt it. I don’t think Regulus is the type to suddenly lay a kiss on a witch he’s been avoiding for months.”

“Never say never Hermione, and speaking of which, it doesn’t seem like he has been avoiding you as much as you say” Ginny replied before crossing her arms over her chest. “Before we any more talk of balls, there is a more pressing matter to be addressed.”

“There is?” Hermione asked.

“Hand over the letter, Granger,” Pansy insisted, and Hermione shrunk back. Ginny was having none of it. 

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t have it on your person, you know that’s the only place it would have been safe.”

Hermione sighed and pulled the letter out of her bag and tried to concentrate on anything else while the others read it. 

“Well, this makes things more interesting.”

“See, I have absolutely no problem believing he means it.”

“What a prick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next time a ball, there are about twenty interactions I want to jam in, and so the ball may take place over two chapters, will have to see. Amongst those moments: an invite from Narcissa, Pansy says her piece, Harry is uncomfortable, Ron is ruffled (although at least at this ball not literally), Marcus is not what was expected, and Regulus is… trying, in every sense of the word! Until next time. 


	16. Chapter 16

As the line of people, not so patiently, waiting to be let into Regulus’ home shuffled forward, Hermione clutched Ron’s arm tighter. She’d often thought that having tall friends was  _useful_ and as she was currently using Ron as part emotional support animal, part human shield he was doubly so. 

Hermione smoothed out her deep green dress for the hundredth time. Typically she would have played with her hair to alleviate the nerves in her limbs, but Pansy had forbidden her from doing so, and Hermione couldn't be entirely sure that her roommate didn’t have a way to check. 

When they had been getting ready earlier in the day, Hermione had become preemptively defensive when the topic of her hair came up. She had been waiting for Pansy to be her usual sarcastic self, and verbally rip her errant curls to pieces. Hermione wasn’t generally one to overly care about her appearance, but she was oddly sensitive about her hair. It had been an easy target for so many while she was growing up that the subject gave her the sensation of applying pressure to already bruised flesh. 

But Pansy hadn’t done that, she had piled Hermione’s hair up onto her head in some elegant twist that took all of five minutes and then lamented the fact that she would never be able to achieve the same sort of carefree look in her own hair as it didn’t have the required ‘body’. 

Hermione was still stunned hours later, but she knew better than to question it. So as they shuffled down the seemingly unending line, she fiddled with her earrings instead and tried to resist the urge to reach into her purse and check that the invite was still there.

When Ron had arrived to pick her up, she had been trying to jam the heavy card stock into her purse without folding it. He had told her to leave it there, but Hermione hadn’t been brave enough for that. She hadn’t been good enough for these people at school, _what if she showed up without the invitation and no one believed she should be there?_ It was a ridiculous train of thought, Regulus had invited her personally, and for better or worse, it wasn’t as if people didn’t know who she and Ron were. And yet the invite was still in her bag, just in case. 

Two elegantly coiffed ladies in front of them harrumphed as the line slowed again and Hermione smiled as Ron awkwardly pulled at the collar of his newly bought dress robes. She imagined wherever Harry was he was doing the same, they weren’t the type of men that enjoyed being buttoned up in fancy clothing, which, luckily for them, was a rarity with their way of life. The last time they had been this dressed up was the Yule Ball. There had been parties in abundance once the war was over, of course, but Harry had put his foot down and refused to be formally attired. Apparently defeating Voldermort meant he was no longer socially obligated to wear a tie. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ron asked as they finally took a couple of steps forward.

Hermione sighed. “The Yule Ball. It seems like such a long time ago.”

“That’s because it is,” Ron replied. “We were _babies_ then.”

Hermione grinned and didn’t bother to remind Ron it was only a few years ago. In many ways he was right, that was the last year before it all got so much darker. “We were. So much has changed.”

“True. Not least of which that I have learnt several lessons. I asked you first and straight away this time.”

Hermione chuckled remembering Ron turning up at the flat with his already crumpled invite to ask if he could _escort_ her. Much to Pansy’s disgust. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that her friend had been hoping she would take along a date that could have passed as a romantic interest. “That you did, and I was very grateful to accept.”

“Honestly, it was a lot easier this time, now that I don’t fancy you.”

Hermione snorted. “At least you saw fit _not_ to mention that when you asked me.”

Ron laughed. “I’m not quite that full of myself! Well, not anymore in any case.”

They lapsed into silence as they continued to trudge forward. Eventually, they were close enough to the townhouse doors to hear sounds drifting from the ball within. Hermione made to straighten out her skirt again, but Ron caught her hand before she could start bothering the layered chiffon. 

“You look lovely tonight, Hermione. You looked lovely all those years ago, but I couldn’t force the words out,” he admitted before squeezing her hand, only once, and then letting go. 

“Thank you,” Hermione replied, caught off guard by his unexpected seriousness. “You’re not so bad yourself, without the antique ruffles.”

“Haha, Hermione, haha,” he said dryly though he subtly looked down at himself as if checking they hadn’t made an appearance without him noticing. 

“It is a pleasure to make you laugh.”

Ron mock scowled, but he looked pleased. “You seem… Happier these last few weeks, less preoccupied.”

“I’m getting there,” Hermione confirmed. It was gratifying that people were beginning to notice, for such a long time after the war, it had felt as if she was going through the motions, acting how people expected her to, saying what she thought they wanted to hear. She wasn’t all fine, some scars would never fade, but she _was_ happier. It was a scale after all, not an on or off switch. She had a direction in life again, and Hermione was the type of person that never truly thrived until she had a plan.

After what felt like a lifetime - but was probably more like ten minutes - they reached the front of the line where an officious looking elf was holding out a long parchment list that curled in wide reams onto the elegant, polished stone floor. _No wonder it had been taking so long to tick people off._

“Er, Hermione Granger and…”

“Ah, Miss Granger,” the elf replied, his demeanour changing as soon as she mentioned her name. “And _guest,_ ” he nodded to Ron politely, “please come through.”

As soon as he spoke another elf appeared, and though equally well turned out, this one seemed far less serious. He gave them a salute before he pointed down the hall within and scampered off ahead of them. 

They were ushered along a succession of corridors, each one dimly lit with tea light candles showing the way. It was probably set up as an elegant way to build anticipation before guests reached the ballroom, but it made Hermione think of the themed lines you waited in at Disney World. And just like at the haunted mansion, the pictures moved. 

“Told you, you wouldn’t need the invite,” Ron whispered as they turned another corner and Hermione elbowed him.

Soon enough, they reached the ballroom, led there by the light that suddenly spilt into the corridor. Hermione paused at the threshold, wanting to take it all in. When she had attended the Yule Ball, there hadn’t been the chance to take a breath before it all started. The champions had gone in together, and she had been too focused on avoiding gapping looks to study the decoration — not today. 

The walls were a dark blue that made her think of country houses she had visited with her grandmother when she was little. The floor was heavily varnished, and massive crystal chandeliers reflected prisms that twisted and lingered like the people milling around on the dance floor. 

It was a lot more elegant than the Yule Ball, but Hermione felt that was less down to the admittedly opulent surroundings than the people that occupied them. She supposed the event would seem fancy when her last experience of such a thing had been with a group of school children who were trying not to fidget in formal clothes. They had been too busy avoiding eye contact with their dates while they sweated in fear for the beginning of the formal dancing to look resplendent. _Or maybe that had just been her and Harry?_

This room was all glittering dresses and feather adornments, crisp black satin and layered tulle. There was soft music and tinkling laughter, a warm glow from candlelight and intrigue in every direction. Waitstaff in the darkest black moved around the room as if part of a grandly choreographed ballet, never stopping for longer than a couple of seconds before they breezed off to quench an appetite somewhere on the other side of the room. 

Hermione felt transported into the world of a costume drama. It was lavish, intimidating, ridiculous and rather wonderful.  

Ron, once again proving the myriad advantages of his stature, spotted a cluster of their friends that had already arrived, and Hermione fell into step behind him as he cut through the bustling crowd. She caught snippets of both whispered and practically shouted conversations as she moved, and though most of them amounted to little more than the usual idle gossip or catty comments she caught one utterance more than most, and that was the name of the man of the house. From the small amount Hermione could gather, Regulus’ return to the land of the living was being treated with tremendous excitement and a little awe. He clearly had a _reputation_ , and considering his journey through time, it had definitely preceded him. 

Before Hermione could credit it, they had reached the other side of the room and Ron had taken one look at Pansy’s hard face before skulking off to go and get them some drinks. 

Pansy looked more at home in such surroundings than most, and Hermione imagined there would be little chance of her staring around the room with anything other than feigned interest. Pansy certainly wouldn't have been caught dead ogling the lighting fixtures like Hermione had done when she entered. 

Pansy was dressed or rather _adorned_ , in a dramatic dress made of black glittery fabric that hung artfully off her shoulders on spaghetti straps and tickled the floor as she walked. Luna was next to her, wearing the antithesis of Pansy’s outfit. Luna’s dress was form-fitting, in a soft yet attention-grabbing pink quilted fabric that finished mid-calf with wonderfully voluminous sleeves. She also wore a thick headband in matching fabric that was holding her wispy blonde waves off her face. 

Luna greeted her warmly before leaving to find Rolf who had gone off a few minutes before in search of canapés. Hermione told her how much she was looking forward to talking later and watched her disappear into the crowd before looking at Pansy expectantly. 

“Something on your mind, Granger?”

“Indeed, there is. I take it you picked out Luna’s outfit?”

Pansy studied her manicure until Hermione coughed to get her attention. “She asked me to go shopping, and I went.” She replied with a shrug. 

“It was lovely of you,” Hermione replied, trying to control her frustration. “But I wish you would have moderated your influence. She still needs to be herself.” 

She thought Luna looked terrific, and her look was definitely _different_ as most of the women were wearing ball gowns, but it seemed almost too conventional to be authentically Luna.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, but when she spoke her tone was as neutral as ever. Hermione found it infuriating. “Hermione, Luna doesn’t need you to fight her battles. You're accusing me of treating her like a child-”

“I’m not,” Hermione interjected hotly. 

“And yet you defend her like she is one,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “I helped her _refine_ her look, not erase who she is, and I did so at _her request_. This is an important event, soon she is going to start working with her father, and no matter what people say about The Quibbler, it is a widely read publication, even more so since the war. She wants people to take her seriously.”

Hermione deflated as soon as she accepted the validity of Pansy’s argument. Then she felt silly, she just hadn’t been able to help herself. Through all that had happened over the last few years, Luna had come out of the other side, somehow still mostly herself, it would have broken something in Hermione to see that crushed. It made her oddly protective. 

Both girls knew, however well they were getting on now, there was still a slither of mistrust on both sides. Hermione would risk anything of her own, but nothing of her friends and she was ashamed to admit that she had, at least in some small way, expected that Pansy had some nefarious ulterior motive. As much as they were trying, six years of bad association didn’t just disappear because you wanted it to. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“We know, Hermione, you _care_ , and honestly we like it… _most_ of the time.”

“I didn’t know you knew the word _care_ , Parkinson? Bit touchy-feely for you, isn’t it?” Ron said as he appeared, carefully extracting the champagne flutes he had gathered up into his steepled fingers and passing them around.

“Ron,” Hermione said in warning, but she wasn’t too severe. Despite his dramatics, he had brought Pansy a drink back with him, which was a welcome surprise. 

“I know, I know, I’ll be nice.”

Pansy looked Ron up and down. “What no ruffles? That is a shame. Luna will be devastated.”

“Luna? Why would she care?”

“She was hoping to put together an article on the oldest dress robes in England. We had understood most of them were in your family's possession.”

Ron smirked though the tops of his ears looked pink. “I didn’t know you paid such close attention to what I wore, Parkinson.”

“Ron,” Pansy said as she tilted her head to the side. “ _Everyone_ noticed you at the Yule Ball; you were wearing the most horrifying set of dress robes anyone had ever seen. In the dead of night, the smell that wafted from them still comes back to me in my nightmares.”

“They weren’t _that_ bad,” Ron muttered, and Hermione wished she could agree with him.

“Tell me,” Pansy continued, “did you choose to _retire_ them following all their years of dedicated service? Or did you finally decide it was best to put them back in the grave you robbed them from?” 

Ron looked at Hermione and pointed at Pansy like a child reporting that another had stolen his bike. She sighed. “I give up; you’re both adults I can’t make you get along.” 

Hermione allowed the continued grumbles from Ron and Pansy wash over her as she glanced around the room, spotting a few familiar faces she remembered from Hogwarts or the Ministry. “Is Harry here yet?”

“No,” Ron replied, “he was on the late shift. Ginny said she would wait for him so they could come together.”

“Where is Rolf? I haven’t seen him yet, and I should really say hello.”

Pansy smiled, a genuine smile with absolutely no malice. “Rolf is over there talking to some French Diplomat that is doing the rounds.” She pointed him out with one finger, and as soon as she had, Hermione wondered how she hadn’t noticed him before. Rolf was wearing incredibly busy, floral print robes, in the same striking pink as Luna’s dress. On anyone else, they would have looked ridiculous, but on Rolf… Hermione didn’t really have the words. Some people were just ahead of everyone else she supposed. As she watched, Luna found Rolf through the crowds, and he draped a protective arm around her waist, before introducing her to his companions. 

Pansy pointed out a few more people, mainly of the type that they should avoid and then Ron asked about Regulus. Well, he asked where ‘the man of the hour’ was, managing to sound condescending, disapproving and indifferent all at once. Hermione was amused by Ron’s dislike but also immensely grateful that she hadn't had to resort to asking herself. She tried to convince herself it was because she would feel better once she knew where he was, so he couldn’t sneak up on her, but she didn’t believe it. 

Pansy inclined her head with much less enthusiasm, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from snapping a look in that direction. The only thing that would have made her look faster would have been someone saying ‘don’t look now’. Her zeal was depressing. 

Hermione would have liked to say it took her ages to spot him. The crowd was getting denser, and the men present were becoming less and less visible as more and more extravagant frocks, and unique headdresses came in. None of it mattered. She located him instantly. 

Regulus was standing between two men Hermione didn’t recognise, and from a distance, Hermione couldn’t tell if their conversation engaged him or not. His cheekbones were in full force as usual, and he had done _something_ with his hair that made it look less controlled, but none of that seemed to register. The only thing Hermione could genuinely focus on was that he wasn’t wearing Black. It wasn’t even a secondary colour in his outfit. It should have made him look less severe, but it didn’t, his eyes glinted as much as they ever did, but still, he looked… different. 

She was so stunned that she barely turned to acknowledge Pansy when she spoke. “Did Regulus ask what you were wearing to tonight?”

“No,” Hermione replied absently, as her eyes studied the intricate gold stitching around Regulus’ buttonholes. “I haven’t spoken to him since he dropped off our invitations. Though, now that you mention it, Kreacher asked me a week or so ago.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He wondered if I needed any help with getting it pressed or whatever. I wasn’t sure what he meant so I showed him the dress. He seemed to think it was fine as it was.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Pansy answered cryptically before turning to Ron. “Weasley, I think I’m going to need another drink, maybe even two, would you mind?”

* * *

Regulus spotted Hermione the very moment she walked into his newly refurbished ballroom, and it wasn’t by chance. After doing a couple of the required laps, he had positioned himself towards the back to give himself the best view of the door. Though, as much as he was eager to see Hermione, he knew there was a good chance that was where he would have found himself regardless. You didn’t spend years being groomed to be the next head of an ancient house and keep your back towards the main entrance. 

Regulus watched her as she lingered on the threshold, and as her eyes drifted upwards. Most that had arrived before her had looked straight at the people, cataloguing who to talk to, and who to avoid. Not Hermione. She looked up and then squeezed the arm of Ronald Weasley, to point out some light fittings or other, the exact direction of her gaze was uncertain. She didn’t fit in his world at all.

Weasley whispered something in Hermione’s ear, and then he led her across the floor towards their friends that he had already seen arrive. Regulus’ eyebrows lifted when faced with Weasley’s unexpected level of care, but it wasn’t enough to rile him. He had relaxed immeasurably as soon as he had seen red hair emerge from the darkness of the corridor. Weasley, he could tolerate. He was pretty sure there was no romantic attachment on either side, though it was clear they cared deeply about one another. Regulus had been psyching himself up for days believing she would arrive with Matty from her office, but it appeared he wouldn’t have to deal with that… at least not tonight.

Hermione had worn something that appeared decidedly Muggle, though _defiantly_ was probably a better word for it. The dress was dark green with a relatively modest bodice and multiple chiffon skirts that wrapped over at the front showing off her dainty feet clad in gold strappy heels. They weren’t high, only a few inches, but when combined with her hair that was piled on top of her head like you would see on a statute of an ancient Greek goddess, she walked taller than usual. 

Regulus had known from Kreacher’s description _precisely_ what to expect, and yet the sight of her was uncommonly startling. Her simple outfit paled in comparison to some of the dresses Regulus had already seen that evening, and yet when she reached Pansy Parkinson and smiled at something her friend said, her face shone with a warmth that none of Narcissa’s skills with candles could ever hope to replicate. 

Regulus extracted himself from his current conversation with practised ease as soon as Hermione appeared to be on her own. _Knowing her friends, that situation would only be temporary._ He accepted his guests' wishes for close business association in the future with as much grace as he could manage and stepped away. Everything was a well-rehearsed play, a natural smile to show confidence, a hand to the shoulder to give deference before gliding off with a nod. 

Getting across the room without being trapped into another conversation took a certain amount of skill, but really it was all about speed. If you moved quickly enough people assumed you were in the middle of some urgent task and left you to it, well, most did, but luckily he only encountered the ‘most’ kind of people on his way. 

“Welcome, Miss Granger,” he greeted as he approached and he noticed the jump she didn’t manage to suppress. “Nice dress.”

Hermione turned, not instantly, Regulus imagined it was after one deep breath. This close Regulus could see the gold chain that had been woven through her curls, only revealing itself as it glinted under the light of the chandeliers. 

“Such flattery,” Hermione replied with a roll of her large brown eyes. Regulus found her dry tone wonderfully soothing in comparison to all of the baseless sucking up he had tolerated since the doors first opened. Though he was annoyed at her for not coming sooner. He had debated putting an earlier time on her invite, but he had decided not to, figuring there wouldn't have been many worse scenarios than her arriving an hour before everyone else with a serious date in tow. 

“You look good in your penguin costume,” she remarked idly, gesturing in his direction with her small hand clutched around a champagne flute. 

Regulus looked down at his impeccably tailored robes with the vague impression that he should feel insulted. “I'm sorry?”

“Sorry, Muggle thing,” Hermione explained, blushing slightly.

For the first time, Regulus honestly considered how frustrating it must be for her to continually have to explain herself as if she were talking gibberish. He knew better than to say anything though. He had been with enough women who had tried very hard to understand his _plight_ , to acknowledge that you were never quite so condescending than when you were trying to _sympathise_ with someone. 

“You know because of the white shirt with the black robes,” Hermione continued, obviously not catching his momentary inattention. “We call tuxedos that and they are our version of dress robes… though I suppose you don’t quite qualify, you’re wearing dark green after all.”

Regulus collected a drink of his own from a passing waiter and had taken his first sip when Hermione blurted, “You're not wearing black?”

“You noticed?” He replied, slightly surprised. The green of his formal robes was a very dark hue, and though it couldn't be said that he _never_ wore colour, it was out of character for him to do so at a formal occasion. 

“It was kind of obvious,” she said with a shrug, but one of her arms wrapped across her chest. Simultaneously, Regulus wanted to shake her for being so evident in her discomfort and kiss her forehead for giving him an in. In the end, he settled for smiling, albeit smugly. 

“But you _admitted_ that you noticed, a point to me I think.”

Hermione eyed him with exasperation, but Regulus was feeling too victorious to mind. “Are we keeping score?”

“Miss Granger, I think we must be by now.”

Hermione’s head tilted to the side, shaking the loose curls that had fallen out around her neck. “Who’s winning?”

Regulus took a step closer. Even if anyone was minded to listen in on their conversation, they would have had difficulty with the cacophony of voices around them, but he found he was reluctant to chance it. He was _strongly_ opposed to Hermione’s contrary responses and soft glances to be observed by anyone but him. 

“I suppose that all depends on what you interpret the overall goal of our _battle_ to be. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Why must everything be a fight? You’ve been back months, has no one told you the war is over?” She asked airily.

Regulus snorted but refused to be baited. “I’m never sure if you're intentionally disrespectful or-”

“-Whether it’s a happy accident?” Hermione injected with a grin, and for once, Regulus didn’t feel the need to win this current round of verbal sparring. As long as Hermione was happy to keep jousting, he wouldn’t look at the scoreboard.

“Something like that.”

Regulus was content to let the world continue around them, but Hermione suddenly started and pressed her cold glass into his hand. “Can you hold this?”

Regulus dutifully took the glass as Hermione walked over to a nearby drinks station and rather mysteriously raised one of the table clothes to retrieve a gift bag. 

“I nearly forgot, which would have been a real pain after carrying it all the way here. Is there a table or somewhere to put these?”

She proffered a large black gift bag with a silver bow. Regulus faltered. “No. No, there isn’t. Gifts are not… Miss Granger, such a thing was highly unnecessary.”

Her cheeks flushed, and some of the sparkles left her eyes. Regulus tried to back peddle, but it was far from a practised art, and rather than listen to him, Hermione busied herself with swapping out her drink for the gift bag into his hand. “Why don’t you keep it? It might come in handy for an occasion when I _should_ be bringing a gift and don’t realise it.”

She giggled awkwardly as if the whole thing was a big joke, but Regulus had studied her face, she wasn’t a good enough liar to half fool him. Not even if she had been trying, which he assumed she wasn’t. “They are only societal rules. Hermione, silly, unending lessons on the way things are done. None of it means anything.”

“I’m pretty sure neither of us believes that.”

There was a whole world in that sentence and Regulus was not prepared to unpack it then. He knew that Hermione was no more willing to be a society wife than he was to begin to foster excellent, friendly relationships with her associates. But there was more to it than that; there had to be, or else he wouldn't have been there.

Regulus looked down at the bag and purposely away from Hermione’s pinched expression. Somehow all of their interactions led to high emotion, good or bad. Though admittedly up to this point, mainly bad. 

“Is it for me or my hostess?” Regulus asked, hoping to change the subject. He indicated to Narcissa, a vision in shimmering gold, who was moving about the party as if she were floating. If the envy of one's guests fueled such a thing, Regulus was sure her head would continually collide with the ceiling.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t suppose it matters. No doubt it will fall short of your _exemplary_ taste,” she said rather pointedly and took a swig of her drink.

“I somewhat doubt that,” Regulus replied as he quietly banished the bag to his room for consideration later. Whatever Hermione said, there was no way he was letting Narcissa have it. 

“Thank you for inviting me,” Hermione said once they had been silent for ten or so seconds. “I had better find Ron before he starts to wonder where I am.”

She made to step away, but before she could, the attention of the room on mass was refocused on the raised area towards the back where the jarring sound of scratching instruments rang out in every direction. The dancing was starting up. 

“Miss Granger, would you care-”

She turned back around but before he could continue Pansy Parkinson, and a somewhat harassed looking Theodore Nott appeared in front of them as just about the most unwelcome manifestation Regulus could imagine. 

“Hermione,” Pansy exclaimed with a predatory grin. 

Regulus didn’t trust that expression, not at all. He moved to take a step closer to Hermione, but it was too late, Pansy wrenched the half-full glass out of her hand and put it onto a tray that happened to be passing.

“Theo would like to dance with you,” Pansy declared before gesturing towards Theo as if he were a marrow she had been preparing for judgement at the local county fair. Proud with a hint of delusion. Regulus had the momentary, happy distraction of imagining himself hexing the shit out of a ‘Best in Show’ rosette that had been roughly stapled to the young boy’s head but, sadly, it faded all too soon. He was back in the ballroom, with his wand still politely holstered against his arm. 

“I would?” Theo asked with frank surprise; however, after one look from Pansy, his hesitation positively melted away into forced eagerness. “ _Clearly_ , I would like nothing better. Hermione if you would do me the honour?”

Hermione took Theodore Nott’s hand graciously, though she was confused. Regulus missed whatever it was she mouthed at Pansy when she walked away and all too soon the gentle comfort of her company was only a memory and in its place stood a cold Pansy Parkinson smirking at him with a single arched brow.

Regulus gritted his teeth and lamented that he couldn’t walk away. It would have been remarked upon if he had done so, especially when he was left standing alone with a single woman just as the dancing started. “Miss Parkinson, it seems it is just the two of us, I wonder if you…”

Pansy rolled her over kohled eyes, and Regulus wondered if Hermione would ever forgive him if he _accidentally_ managed to strangle her. “Save the gallant act for someone who cares, Regulus Black. My shoes are incredibly high. I estimate I have five good dances in me at best, let's get this over with so I can go back to enjoying myself.”

Regulus quietly reflected that what she lacked in grace, she made up for in pragmatism and led her out to the floor.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he remarked sometime later. They had only been trapped in silence for a couple of minutes, but it felt like longer. Pansy was too tall, and her features were too severe, her manner was too cold. But as much as he wanted to hate her, he knew it wasn’t her fault. Simply, he couldn’t force himself to enjoy a dance when his choice of partner was roaming around the room with another heir to an ancient - though, not in his opinion noble - house, and one with less crazy in the family tree.

“Of course I am,” Pansy scoffed, “I was trained to be, no doubt like you were.”

“And yet, you did not return the compliment,” Regulus muttered though Pansy heard him.

She gripped him a little too tightly as they navigated a group of rather loud guests. “I did not. You see, by my estimation you’ve already had more than enough to spoil you.”

Regulus resolved to keep his mouth firmly closed for the rest of their required time together, convention be damned, but Pansy was not in the mood for silence.

“She didn't ask for this you know,” she observed as she looked around the room. 

Regulus didn’t need her to clarify what she meant. “She pulled me through time,” he replied, somewhat defensively.

“Not intentionally.”

“The intent does not matter,” he dismissed. 

“Intent is _all_ that matters,” Pansy countered before she took over leadership of their uncomfortable dance and ushered them over to a quieter side of the dance floor. “Hermione played what she thought was a _party game_ , something she’d never had the required inclusion or freedom to do before. She had _no idea_ what would happen, and even if she did, she certainly had _no_ designs on bringing _you_ through time.”

He saw her high colour and felt his temper rising in response. It was _easy_ for her to stand there and belittle what had happened. It had been a game to them, but it hadn’t been for him. He had been seconds away from death, saved, and then repeatedly told it was all an accident. Regulus had never believed in accidents. It stung more than he would ever admit that Hermione was _allowed_ to say that she hadn’t chosen this, hadn’t wanted him. He’d had no more choice than she, even less because he had never even tempted fate and yet he was supposed to feel _grateful_ because intentionally or not she had saved him. Hermione had saved his life, but she had brought him into a world where he had lost more than he could ever have imagined. 

Not sensing his growing ire, Pansy continued as if she was scolding a prepubescent. “You’re here, and for some unknown reason that I may never fathom, you and Hermione are destined to have linked souls.”

“You think I’m not good enough for her?” Regulus asked aghast, and Pansy dared to laugh, right in his face.

“By my reckoning, you’re barely even the same species.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Maybe not, but you should. It comes down to this; you can be an arsehole and brood as much as you want, but I see the way you look at her, and I know you're not just hoping for a friendship.”

“I'm a Black,” Regulus spat. His words _should_ have been enough, and maybe they would have been in his own time, but to the witch in front of him, he was going to need to explain himself more than that. “We do not do things by half measures, and we certainly aren’t accosted in balls, _that we are hosting no less_ , to answer impertinent questions about our personal lives.”

“We?” Pansy said mockingly, “a few months ago the Black's weren't doing anything at all, your line was extinct. Defunct. Caput. _You_ are the Blacks now, Regulus, you make it what you want to be.”

Regulus felt his control slipping, and he was mindful enough to realise that a ball to celebrate your relaunch into society was probably not the best place to go on a violent rampage. It was time to wrap this up. “You are none too elegantly skirting around a point Miss Parkinson, if you have something to say, this is your opportunity.”

If his tone threatened Pansy, she didn’t show it. She smiled in greeting to a young wizard that passed them on the left before they once again moved away from the other dancers. 

“If you do anything to hurt her, more than you already have, I will end you.”

Regulus almost halted in his tracks, but years of training kept his feet moving. He felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest, and he had to hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop himself from asking how he had already hurt Hermione. But he refused to give any more of himself to this conversation, so he would keep his own counsel. If he could drink a glass of wine and eat a meal at a table with Voldemort when all he could hear was screaming from an adjacent room, he could do this.

“A bit over the top for a member of Slytherin house. I see subtly has almost entirely skipped this generation. How disappointing.”

“Not at all. I’m making you a promise. If you hurt that girl, there won’t be enough left of your pretty face for even your nearest relative to identify you by.”

Regulus sighed dramatically. “Who would think you were common enough to make such a violent and vague statement against me in my house?”

Pansy clucked her tongue as she expertly negotiated a more complicated piece of footwork, backwards. “I assure you there would be nothing _vague_ about it. I’ve thought about many scenarios, but in my current favourite I press my heeled foot against your windpipe until you’re nearly dead and then I give myself a moment to look you in the eyes before I crush it under my manicured toes.”

Regulus tried not to yawn. “I was a _Death Eater_ , Miss Parkinson, your Muggle methods do not begin to frighten me.”

“Don't be so sure. I’ve watched a ridiculously large number of those crime shows Hermione loves-”

“Since you moved in?” Regulus interjected before he could stop himself.

“I’m sorry?”

“She said there was some talk of you moving in.”

“Yes,” Pansy replied, shaking her head as if she couldn't work out how the conversation had changed so rapidly. “I live there now, when we aren’t at Hogwarts.”

“I would have thought that living arrangement would be a block to both of you finding husbands.”

“Well, we could always give up the ‘husband hunt’ altogether and find each other.” Instinctively, his jaw tightened, and the bitch saw it, she smirked. “Don’t like the idea of that, do you? Nothing to get yourself in a tizz about, I just wanted to check you were as possessive as I’d always heard you were. A fat lot of good it does you as the girl isn’t yours.”

Regulus twirled Pansy around, more forceful than strictly necessary and they came up next to Potter who was inexpertly leading Ginny Weasley around the floor in something approaching a familiar dance. Apparently, Potter was one of the few people who dress robes did nothing for, he looked the same as he ever did, messy hair and all, though Weasley was wearing a dress that was close to scandalous. Regulus couldn’t understand what the redhead saw in Potter, but that thought gave him a hideous case of déjà vu, and so he shut it away. 

They moved back into the throng after exchanging a few brief words, in time to dance past Theodore Nott who was mumbling something with a wry smile that made Hermione giggle. 

“If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life grinding your teeth, I suggest you speak to her. She won’t wait for you.”

_Wouldn’t she?_ Regulus couldn’t pretend that he had imagined Hermione had been sat at home pining for him, but his arrival here meant _something_. She had all but summoned him into her life. He had been reluctant to believe in the soulmate spell at first, but one thing he was not was an idiot. He hadn’t wanted to believe Voldemort had created Horcruxes, but as soon as it had become the most logical solution, he had accepted it. 

They still hadn’t talked about it, Regulus knew that, but he had hardly been in a position to offer her anything, protection, friendship or otherwise while he was still legally dead. Now he was certifiably himself again, and she was making so far unheard noises of mirth while pressed against a boy that wouldn't have been worthy of her if he tried.

“I am not accustomed to,” Regulus began, “laying it all out.” Being this open with a person he didn’t truly know was as foolhardy as it was excruciating. “Pursuing people in my time… she would already know from my attentions - I found out what she was wearing and dressed accordingly. I’m sure just about everyone else in this room knows what that means.”

Pansy sighed. “Hermione isn’t from _your time_ , or _your circle_ and though I empathise with being brought up in the land of no emotion that is not a world that Hermione inhabits. She respects transparency and integrity, not just saying what you mean but acting on it too. Honestly, it can be a little exhausting, but if you want her in your life, then you adapt.”

“I-”

“This isn’t a request,” Pansy interjected impatiently. “Hermione is _important_. So adapt Regulus Black, or do us all a favour and fuck off.”

Pansy stormed off after performing the most dramatically rigid curtsey Regulus had ever seen. Ideally, he would have mulled over Pansy’s words for a few days until he could determine what he felt the truth of them was, but standing in the middle of a ballroom was not the time for self-reflection. 

He moved out of the way of an inanely smiling couple and decided to track Hermione down. By his reckoning, she had been dancing with Nott for long enough, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to get to her before Pansy did. 

Regulus spotted her quickly and again managed to dodge revellers who were tracking him down to make it to her side. 

“May I cut in?” he asked smoothly, dropping the volume of his voice despite the noise around them. In days gone by, his question would have been posed to the lady’s dance partner - as was expected - but Regulus had no interest in whether Nott was happy to comply, he was too focused on the tension that had appeared in Hermione's shoulders as soon as he spoke. 

Nott, to his credit, murmured a few conventional, bland platitudes before he drifted away with a subtle bow. Regulus took his place with alacrity and held up his arms, forcefully holding himself back until Hermione elected to step into them. After his conversation with Pansy, part of him had become fixated on the idea of her picking him, choosing to interact in ways she hadn’t in the beginning.

Hermione eyed him critically as if all of his intentions could be gleaned from the set of his forehead, but eventually, she tentatively moved into his embrace. 

Regulus placed his warm hand onto the small of her back and subtly pushed them closer together before gliding them back to join the dancing. 

They were silent for almost the whole of the first song they were together. Regulus had been determined to start a conversation as soon as he came over but then, after a couple of string movements, Hermione had settled against him. The tight line of her torso sagged into his hold, and she shuffled a fraction of an inch further into his chest. Regulus had felt a deep click inside of himself. It was as if some small moving part had finally settled into the perfect alignment after years and years of being out of kilter. 

The saltwater that had been lingering in his mind, metaphorically lapping at his ankles, it had finally receded. The claws that had appeared behind his eyelids had left him, gone off to torment some other soul. His mind was silent; his arms were warm, his heart… he’d never really trusted that organ. He held Hermione tighter, and though she started for a moment, she said nothing. 

Their second song began, and it was a quicker number that had more people up and about, more people to see them. Regulus shook off the feeling he was quickly sinking in to. It wouldn't do to betray his interest so clearly at such an event. While everyone was all smiles to his face, he did not doubt that he had enemies. He wouldn't expose _her_ to their vengeance, less they assumed she was an easy target. 

“I think your friend attempted to threaten me,” he began eventually. 

Hermione chuckled into his shirt and then looked up at him. “ _Attempted_ as in you were not threatened? Or _attempted_ as in she didn't finish what she started?”

Regulus sighed in a put upon manner. “Wordplay, Miss Granger?”

“If you say so, Mr Black?”

“Do I irritate you?” he found himself asking, even though the smile pulling at her lips told him otherwise. He'd got that impression from her before, _several times_ , and he'd never been able to find out. 

Hermione grinned as they stepped around an exuberant couple and moved to a less dangerous part of the floor. “Is it that obvious?”

“Are we to trade questions all evening?”

“Must we?”

Regulus smiled, and it wasn't one of his contrived ones either. He couldn't help himself. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Granger?”

“I suppose so,” she replied quietly and once again he was baffled by her response. 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that you get this particular look when you have something you want to say but are desperately holding it in? Your brow pinches, and you hold your tongue to the side of your mouth as if you are afraid it will get away from you.”

“Well, that sounds attractive,” Hermione pouted, and Regulus laughed. It attracted the attention of some of the people closest to them, and it was little wonder, it has been such a long time since he had heard it, Regulus barely recognised the sound himself. 

He looked at her upturned indignant face and thought about what Pansy has said. He moved his hand that was still resting against the base of her spine and rubbed his thumb slowly against her lower back. “It's rather adorable actually and gratifying. You know how much I enjoy taking you by surprise.”

It was clear that Hermione was astonished by his compliment, and as he had come to expect of her, she didn't try to hide it. She was so shocked in fact that Regulus began to get angry; he was starting to realise how much he had overplayed his hand though he would never really see how she had not picked anything up from the tone of his address or other attentions.

The music changed again, and the pace slowed, Regulus kept Hermione pinned to him as various people came over to say hello, all of them with _eligible_ daughters. They never exactly said the words, but it wasn’t hard to interpret their intentions.

“If you ask me the whole thing is gross,” Hermione said when they had finally been left alone. 

“What thing?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “As if you haven't noticed. All those women were parading themselves or their children in front of you. You're essentially just back from the dead, and all they care about is winning your favour by trapping you in marriage with a witch you barely know.”

Her staunch defensive was rather pleasant, but the edge in her tone made him want to ask if she was jealous, but he held his tongue. “Much as I am gratified you think I am the only one getting such attention I assure you it is far from the case. It is the traditional time of year for that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” Hermione asked with interest, and Regulus smothered his grin.

“Marriage contracts and betrothals are usually announced before the end of the school year. In my time, a witch would have left school after graduation and then planned her wedding so she could move from the protection of her father's house to her husband’s without delay.” 

That Hermione was disgusted was not a shock though she saved whatever tirade she had been planning to exchange greetings with a couple of elderly looking wizards she must have known from her time at the Ministry. Regulus, ever the opportunist, decided it would be useful to use that distraction. 

“Who would one apply to… in your case?”

“Apply?”

“I don't imagine you will like to hear of this either, but traditionally speaking, a suiter would approach your head of house to arrange any marriage contracts or the like.”

It was clear that Hermione was not paying attention when her only response was to say, “I’ve never really thought about it.” 

“I suppose you haven’t.”

* * *

Pansy snatched up a couple of puff pastry miniatures coated in an unknown substance as she stomped across the ballroom. Despite the lingering cloud of her worsening mood, she enjoyed the way her dress billowed and flared as she stepped. It added a certain something to her demeanour. A drama that could not be achieved with a cold look alone. She could not wait to be out of school uniforms and into clothes of her choosing for good.

Pansy forced a less hostile expression as she walked past people she knew to be vague acquaintances of her parents, less it was reported that she was ‘beneath expectations’. It required considerable effort. Even though she had said all she wanted to say to Regulus, and more, she was still pissed off. More so as she had seen him slither after Hermione as soon as she had stalked away. She hoped more than believed that he would have rushed over there, keen to act on her words and assure Hermione of his interest. The prick.

Pansy hadn’t wanted to have such an awkward conversation so early in the evening, but she knew it was for the best. If she had left it any longer she would have had a few more drinks, and by then there would have been an excellent chance that her verbal reasoning skills would have altogether deserted her, and then she would have had to resort to hitting him. 

Just as she reached the relative safety of the nearest dark corner to enjoy her hastily grabbed food, Pansy glanced up in time to see Daphne Greengrass approaching, gliding across the room like a poor imitation of Narcissa Malfoy, as if she owned the place in other words. Or, more likely, that she imagined that she was in with a shot of doing so. Daphne’s attempt was made or the more comical as she was clearly struggling to move under the weight of her perfectly appropriate and yet hideously dull lavender evening gown. It had a low back that was finished with a monstrously large bow that wobbled hither and thither as she walked. Pansy could imagine the perfect girl’s mother saying that the outfit made Daphne look ‘like the present she was’, and just like that Pansy lost her appetite. She dropped the pastries on an empty plate and picked up a napkin to remove the evidence from her fingers. 

“Daphne, it has been a long time,” Pansy greeted, drawing herself up onto her heels. 

Daphne tittered in an affected way and brushed her hair off one shoulder. “You understand _why_ Pansy,” she replied without the pretence of her own greeting. “ _We_ could hardly be seen to associate with the girl that called for Harry Potter to be murdered.”

Pansy wished she had a drink. 

It was remarkably odd how her previous fractious conversion had proved to gift her the balming agent she would need to get through this one. Pansy focused hard on Regulus trying ever so hard not to grit his teeth every time Theo made Hermione laugh, and it took the sting away from Daphne’s presence. She was barking ever so loudly up the wrong tree, and unfortunately for her, this friend had no interest in saving her embarrassment by telling her so.

Pansy imagined that Daphne’s words _should_ have hurt, they had been something near friends for seven years, and yet the sharp stab never came. She knew what the game was, and if pressed Pansy couldn’t say she would have acted differently.

The truth was, Pansy had always been closer to the boys in her year group, and she knew Daphne had resented that. Daphne had grown up attractive and doted on, and it had been all too obvious when she came to Hogwarts that she’d expected that devotion to continue. But it hadn’t. As it had turned out, Draco and Theo, and even Blaise when he was paying attention, had liked Pansy more, they loved her _because_ she was mean not in spite of it. It hadn’t mattered that she wasn’t pretty, at least not in the beginning. 

Pansy supposed she and Granger had more in common than she had first thought. 

Pansy left Daphne waiting as long as was polite and then lingered a tiny bit more to amuse herself before she replied. “I think _we_ might be overstating it a touch. I speak to Theo after all.”

“He has told me of your letters,” Daphne said condescendingly as if she thought Theo was keeping up correspondence out of some misguided sense of charity. “And Draco?”

Pansy saw Daphne’s slight smile. She clearly believed she had picked a particularly savage knife to twist. Unfortunately for her, that particular blade had been rather dull for some time.

Pansy had loved Draco Malfoy for most of her life, in some iteration or another. The first had been puppy love, but it had grown and morphed into something more like the affection one has for a brother by the end of his school years. 

“I get the impression he’s avoiding the world rather than me in particular,” Pansy said dispassionately.

“And yet you seem to be doing ok for yourself,” Daphne observed with a haughty sneer, but her eyebrows rose as Hermione emerged from the growing crowd. 

On instinct, Pansy shifted so Hermione could join the group, and as she did so, she noticed how tightly Hermione was holding herself. Her shoulders were stiff, almost as tense as her jaw, and yet she had somehow managed to plaster a smile across her open face. Even though it wouldn’t have fooled a blind mind, Pansy couldn’t help but be impressed. 

Pansy had watched Hermione stare at the picture of Daphne and Regulus in the Prophet, she had done it when she thought no one else was looking, but she had done so for so long, and so intently that she must have burnt the image into her mind. Pansy knew Daphne was the _last person_ in the world Hermione wanted to have a conversation with and yet she must have marched over as soon as she had seen them together. 

Pansy hadn’t let on much, it wasn’t her way to wallow, but she had seemingly told Hermione enough for her to realise this wasn’t an encounter she wanted, and Hermione had come over despite her own discomfort.  

She hadn’t been joking when she’d told Regulus she’d kill him if he hurt her. 

Hermione passed her a drink, and without another word, they clinked their glasses together. 

“You have something to celebrate?” Daphne asked incredulously. Pansy wanted to quip that Daphne’s left hand looked equally bare and the impulse caught her off guard. She was spending far too much time around Gryffindors.  

“Getting through our first turns on the dancefloor without major incident,” Hermione replied smoothly, and they all ignored that the girls hadn’t greeted each other. “I often find these things overwhelming to start with.”

Pansy wanted to put her hand over Hermione’s mouth to stop her from spilling all of her weaknesses and soft spots to a girl that was not her friend, Daphne would have no problem using any information against her.

“Really?” Daphne raised a manicured eyebrow. “I have always rather enjoyed dancing myself, at least when one has an _agreeable_ partner.”

Pansy followed Daphne’s pointed gaze to where Regulus was standing, locked in conversation with some international bigwig or other. 

“What a shame none of them are coming over to claim you,” Pansy replied. “You’ll have to settle for us until you are noticed.”

Hermione started to fidget, and it instantly brought Pansy into a better humour, it was genuinely hilarious how difficult she found conflict situations, even when she wasn’t directly involved. Hermione made to take a large sip of her drink, probably to settle her nerves but before she could do so, with a dull pop, Kreacher appeared and vanished her glass along with Pansy’s own. Daphne startled, but as Pansy and Hermione were getting rather used to Kreacher turning up at all hours, his sudden appearance barely registered. 

“Missy Hermione have Kir Royale, you will prefer it to the champagne.”

Hermione eyed the pink drink appreciatively. “Thank you Kreacher, you think of everything,” she said kindly, and Pansy could swear that the wizened old elf actually dimpled. 

Kreacher popped away as Daphne looked at her unchanged glass speculatively. “That elf, who is he?” She asked as idly as she could manage. _Not idly enough_.

“He’s a Black family elf,” Pansy replied, taking a large swig of her new drink. “And _so_ attentive.”

Daphne looked between Pansy and Hermione with poorly concealed dissatisfaction. “Is he indeed.”

“Anyway,” Pansy said, much more brightly. “Hermione and I must be off. It’s been lovely seeing you Daphne, and we must do it all again soon etc etc. Come on now Hermione, I need some food, my appetite has finally returned.”

Hermione looked confused but allowed herself to be ushered away and seemed to have enough sense of Slytherin battle lines not to bother lamenting being cut off from further conversation with Daphne. 

“What was all that about?” Hermione asked as they walked away. 

“Everything and nothing,” Pansy replied cryptically. “Let’s find a safe haven on the other side of the room before either of us has the misfortune of being asked to dance again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So that’s the first part of the ball! More to come, including some Draco and Hermione interaction, Marcus Flint pops up for a bit, Pansy continues to be snarky and obviously some more Regulus. For those that are interested in such things, I will be posting outfit inspirations on my Tumblr.


	17. Chapter 17

As much as Hermione was tempted to compare the entire event to the Yule Ball - _this is what became of having so few glittering evenings in one’s life_ \- it became harder and harder to do as the night wore on. In a loose comparative summary, Hermione danced more and cried less, which, Hermione was given to understand, was about as good as it got for special occasions. 

Hermione moved around the room, smiling and chatting with greater ease than she had felt before. The Kir Royale no doubt helped. She’d never had a champagne cocktail before, she couldn’t even think of a time when she would have _potentially_ had the call for one, but she was sure it was expertly prepared, judging by how delicious it was. But it wasn’t just the warm buzz from the alcohol that was making her feel better inside her skin. 

Now that she’d made some decisions about her life, about her career, Hermione felt more confident. In some ways, she was even impatient, eager to finish school and to get on with her life. In comparison to her feelings only a few months before, the change was monumental, and so were its effects. 

Her spine was straight, her chin was high, and even without a bone fide international star on her arm, she was comfortable enough to do the circuit. In some ways it was more enjoyable _without_ a date. She had sent Ron off soon after arrival for him to chat with whomever he chose as they were only their as friends she didn't see the need for him to attend on her needs all evening. Hermione would always be happier representing herself than being seen as some wizard’s trinket box - a decorative object with no real usage. Even if neither Viktor or Ron had ever thought about her in such a dismissive way, other people would have. 

It was also hard to compare Regulus’ ball to any school event when Hermione found herself dancing with not only Theodore Nott but also briefly with Blaise Zabini and now Marcus Flint. Blaise had tried to charm her into giving up information on Pansy, which had been met with little more than a raised eyebrow now matter how captivating his smile was. Conversely, Marcus seemed much more interested in an attempt to charm her horizontal. Hermione wasn’t sure which horrified her more. 

When Marcus had first approached she had been standing with Ron and Hermione was grateful if only because without his rather curt mutter of ‘Flint’ she would have had no idea who the man standing in front of them - as if he needed no introduction - was. It appeared Hermione wasn’t the only one in the room who had made use of magical dentistry over the years if Marcus’ straight, white, shark-like smile was anything to go by.

When he asked her to dance, Hermione had almost refused before she could even think twice about it, and then she realised how ridiculous it would have been to reject him out of hand. If she could ‘break bread’ with a maudlin, world fearing, alcohol dependant Draco Malfoy, then surely she could take a turn about the room with a boy she remembered so little of from Hogwarts. Even when she tried, the only things that came to mind about Marcus was his aggression on the Quidditch pitch and that he’d had to make up a year. Though Hermione just about suppressed a flinch when that little tidbit filtered to the front of her memory. 

Eventually, Hermione agreed though mainly for Pansy’s sake. She may not have discussed the issue of the appearing name much with her friend, but she knew Pansy well enough to understand that she wouldn’t have mentioned the game at all unless she was giving it at least a little credence. Hermione also didn’t buy into the idea that it could have been someone else. While Marcus was not an uncommon name, the circle in which Pansy was determined to marry into, if she did so at all, was small. 

Child’s game or not, strangers things had happened in the magical world. They were after all at a ball hosted by a man she had accidentally dragged through time.

Hermione had pushed her feelings to the side to accept Marcus’ hand and was suddenly more eager for the opportunity to get to know him better. After all, Rolf was forever travelling, and yet since he had started seeing Luna, they saw a great deal of him. It stood to reason that living with Pansy, Hermione would see whoever she decided to date even more often. 

All in all, Hermione was feeling rather pleased with her newfound tolerance for her fellow man, as she started dancing with Marcus Flint. _This was a sign of growth,_ she told herself. It was all very well to stand up to a Dark Lord, but it was quite another to admit that you were more judgemental than you should be.

It was all going so well, his conversation was dull, but not offensively so, and then Marcus put his hand on her bum. 

It wasn’t a gentle swipe, one that could have been downplayed as an accident or maybe even a misguided attempt at flirtation. It was a full-hand grab that revealed to Hermione just how thin the material of her dress was when she felt the unwelcome heat of his large hand against the lace outline of her knickers. 

Hermione’s head snapped up, and she instinctively felt for her wand, which was holstered against her thigh. She had thought about shouting him into submission, but she wanted the lesson she was about to dole out to be more permanent. 

Marcus looked down at her with a lopsided grin and Hermione’s blood boiled, she gripped his wrist as tight as she could and frantically brushed at the material of her skirts to get them out of the way. She was going to… 

“I don’t suppose I could cut in?”

Hermione sagged in relief when she heard Draco’s voice, the adrenaline of the last couple of seconds bled out of her in a rush, and it made her feel slightly lightheaded. She only just suppressed a howl of manic laughter as she fully registered that she was _happy_ to see Draco Malfoy, of all people. _What had become of her life?_

Though it was clear Draco had spoken to her, he wasn’t looking in her direction. When Hermione could tear her gaze away from Marcus’ thick arm, she saw the steely quality of Draco’s gaze, and that was all for Marcus’ benefit. 

Marcus released her as if her flesh were suddenly molten and then stammered out something intelligible. He continued incoherently mumbling until Ginny wandered past in her high necked dress with a thigh-high split. All thoughts of offences he may have caused were forgotten when his eyes bulged. Hermione snorted. 

“So ladylike,” Draco drawled as Marcus finally disappeared and Hermione rolled her eyes. They stood facing each other for a moment until he tugged on the end of one of his sleeves. Hermione noted it was his marked arm, and she felt guilty for discomforting him with her silence. “I appreciate that I’ve already served my primary purpose, but as we are both stood here?”

“Of course,” Hermione replied, and she stepped towards him before they were left standing like lemons any longer. She knew she would get an earful from Ron and possibly even Harry when they saw her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Over the previous weeks, Draco had become someone Hermione knew rather well, through their meetups she felt she _understood_ him, as much as she ever understood anyone. 

As Draco began to guide her around the floor, Hermione unexpectedly felt relieved to be in his company. After gadding about with virtual strangers, she was no longer expected to make a worthwhile attempt at exciting conversation. Herself and Draco had covered so many of the horrible topics that lingered between them when they spoke over ‘tea’ that small talk was rather soothing in comparison. 

_How have you been? Isn’t it warm for this time of year? Have you seen so and so?_ All those questions had form answers that required little of herself to answer. _Do you hate me? Where do I go from here? When will the nightmares stop?_ Those and ones like it were much more difficult. 

“Thank you for cutting in, I was very close to hexing him,” she admitted as Draco performed a quick transition with his feet that Hermione had no hope of replicating, so she just held on. 

“I didn’t do it for you,” Draco dismissively replied, and he guided her more expertly around the floor than Marcus could ever have hoped to in a month of Sundays. “My mother has been planning this event for weeks. I will not be subjected to hearing about its demise for months. All because you have never been able to keep your temper.”

“Me keep my temper?” Hermione snapped. “Have you forgotten who you are talking to? We went to school together, Malfoy, and unless I’m mistaking you for someone else, I don’t remember you being zen.”

“That was school, not a ballroom,” Draco rebutted with one of his contemptible little sneers. “Were you raised by wild animals? Why else would you think that contemplating violence at such an event was acceptable?”

_Says the Death Eater_ her mind supplied though thankfully she bit it back. Hermione was used to Draco’s snark by now, underneath all of his posturing and blather, she could see that he was irate, and as much as he would protest, it wasn’t at her. 

“He grabbed my arse Draco,” Hermione scolded. “I was _well_ within my rights to remind him why that wasn’t a good move.”

“Typical Gryffindor,” Draco scoffed. “Absolutely no subtly whatsoever.”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “What would _you_ have done?”

Draco smirked. “If Marcus Flint touched my arse? Told him to stay in his lane, there’s no way he’s anywhere near my league.” 

Hermione wanted to bang her head against the nearest wall. _How did the Slytherin’s survive this for seven years without coming to significant blows?_ “Malfoy,” she chastised utterly exasperated. 

Draco manoeuvred her around an over large flower arrangement as the previously fading string sounds suddenly quickened, before unexpectedly tilting her. Hermione couldn’t control her gasp, and Draco followed her movement until their noses were almost touching and then he righted her again, in a quick action just as jarring as the first had been. 

“Warn a girl, would you Draco? I thought you were going to drop me on the floor.”

“Where would the fun be in that? There would be no chance of me dropping you unless I had expressly planned it. If you haven't quite gathered it yet, I’m actually rather good at this. Far better than you in any case.”

“Whatever,” Hermione mumbled, though she didn’t have anything in the way of a counter-argument to present. She was painfully aware that Draco’s dancing was far superior to her own. She supposed she would have to console herself at being better than him at everything else. 

“Poisoned letter,” Draco said as they made another turn and Hermione eyed him quizzically. “That’s what I would do,” he clarified in a bored sort of way. 

“I wouldn’t even know how to begin such a thing, would you-”

“Consider it done,” Draco interjected, and Hermione had the distinct impression he was pleased to have found she didn’t protest the idea. She had reminded Draco often that he was the one wedded to the idea that she was a complete ‘goody two shoes’. Hermione had made peace with her more vindictive side a long time ago. In some cases, retribution was as much personal revenge as it was a public service. 

“That’s kind of you.”

“Hardly, I couldn't expect you to do it properly, you would be caught, and that might be… _inconvenient_ for me. As I said, you lack the proper subtlety.”

“A Slytherin sort of _subtlety_?” Hermione replied, derisively. 

“Exactly.”

Hermione grinned devilishly. “Ask your cousin about spiteful letters, then come back to me about Slytherin refinement. There was one note in particular - to the Dark Lord no less - that was _definitely_ lacking a certain nuance.” 

* * *

While Hermione danced, Regulus paced. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but when the third waiter in a row had ducked out of his way, he decided it was time to make a more concerted effort to school his features and present himself in a less murderous fashion. 

Any attempt at burring his feelings wouldn't have been possible while she had been dancing with Marcus _fucking_ Flint. Regulus had found it somewhat amusing at first that yet another son of Slytherin had asked Hermione to dance. This night was teaching him to laugh - almost - at his own assertions. He had been convinced of himself, and then she’d been attended on by practically every peer in the room. 

Yes, Regulus had found it funny, until Marcus’ large, distinctly calloused and grubby hands began to roam over Hermione’s body. It was subtle at first, and Regulus was sure he had picked up the boy’s intent even before Hermione had. When Marcus’ unwelcome hands had reached her bum, Regulus had put his drink down and thought about taking off his jacket, but his feet had already been moving. 

There was no bloody way that was happening. He had told himself Narcissa would understand and most likely she would have. If Walburga had taught him nothing else, it was that an English pureblood’s home was his castle, and this one, Regulus set the rules. If he decided that Flint’s corpse would make an excellent addition to the decorating scheme, so be it. But he never got that far. Regulus wouldn’t say _thankfully_ , because he wouldn’t have meant it. 

As soon as Marcus had given Hermione’s bum one unhurried squeeze, Regulus saw that she immediately reached for her wand. It had been enough to stop him dead in his tracks. He might have been desperate to wipe the smug expression of Flint’s face, but he was even more so to watch her do it. 

His cousin’s sudden appearance at Hermione’s side had seen him retreat though he stayed close enough to keep watch, resume his drink and wonder at how fast his anger dissipated to be replaced by inconveniently public arousal. Her passion was undeniably captivating, but her rage was unexpectedly more so. Especially when it wasn’t directed at him. The witch was going to be the death of him. _Not his brother, not his parents, not the Dark Lord, not a whole cave worth of Inferi, but a teenage witch who had no idea of her power._

Regulus watched as Marcus skulked away and, after a short discussion, Draco took his place. Then he began his agitation of the newly polished floorboards.

Their dance, Draco and Hermione’s, could not have been more different to Hermione’s last. For one, Draco’s hands barely moved, and they certainly didn’t stray into anything even approaching inappropriate. Typically, Regulus would never have looked, but he felt the need to check, for Hermione’s sake, but it was for nothing. Draco’s hold was rigidly formal. They forwent bowing to each other at the beginning, but that seemed to be by some mutual agreement that caused them to share a challenging glance before they moved amongst the other couples with a sort of begrudging harmony.

To a casual observer, Regulus assumed that Hermione and Draco would both appear as if they were not enjoying each others company. He could imagine those watching whispering to each other and asking why they had been _forced_ together, or what the young Malfoy heir was looking to gain from an association from the Granger girl? 

They weren’t laughing, or smiling, or showing much outward sign of anything at all, and yet his cousin was holding himself more upright than Regulus had ever seen, as if, for once, he could bear to be looked at. As he was guiding Hermione around the floor, he was turning at regular intervals, so it was always his back that brushed up against any encroaching couples. 

He saw Hermione’s eyes flash a couple of times with familiar disgruntled passion, especially when she apparently realised Draco’s seemingly protective intent. Regulus supposed if he hadn’t thought about her expressions so much over the previous months, he would have thought she looked angry, but he knew she wasn’t. 

Hermione was enjoying herself. He tried to tell himself that it was good to see her happy. He failed, but he was proud of himself for trying. 

After what seemed like a lifetime the pair stopped dancing, and Draco guided Hermione off the floor as Regulus remembered being taught to do when he was a boy. Draco said something, and in response, Hermione momentarily placed her hand on his wrist. When she wandered off, she left his cousin with a slight flush in his cheeks. 

* * *

After dancing more dances than Hermione would have thought her feet, or her patience, capable of, she drifted away from the crush of the dancefloor to sit in one of the sheltered seats over on the far side of the room. It was the only place in the whole ballroom that wasn’t cascaded in light and Ginny had told her earlier that traditionally these areas had been set up for women who weren’t dancing, and they were kept in a shady area so the ladies in question could remain as unobtrusive as possible as they remained _unchosen_. 

Whether the traditional usage had died out or not, Hermione had determined right then and there that she would sit in what she had begun to call the ‘pity section’ for at least part of her evening. She had never been able to stop herself from giving the finger to the patriarchy, whenever and wherever the situation called for it, and that wasn’t going to change because she had put a lovely dress on. 

Though in this case, her choice to sit was as attributable to the aching in her feet as her more revolutionary tenancies. 

Hermione resisted the urge to take her shoes off, knowing not by experience but from Pansy, that it would make it worse later. Instead, she took a piece of cake from a passing waiter and, after pausing the requisite few seconds to make sure Kreacher wasn’t going to appear to change it for something more luxurious, she dove in while observing the play-by-play on the floor.

From her vantage point, Hermione could see Rolf allowing Luna to lead him around in an unhurried dance and Harry and Ginny shuffling in a much more self-aware and awkward fashion behind them. Rather, Harry was uncomfortable, Ginny herself was an excellent dancer, and apparently one that was too in love with Harry to notice his shortcomings.  

Her friends looked beautiful. So in love, and so happy; looking out at them was like staring out at a vignette of all the dreams Hermione had had for them while she had been stuck in a musty unloved tent during the war. Except this was real, and so much more lovely than what she had been able to conjure her mind's eye. Hermione considered that she somewhat lacked both the imagination and the experience required to daydream effectively. 

Some of them had already found their perfect matches, and while you couldn’t say that the individuals within each couple were similar, they complimented each other in a way that made them seem more magnificent than the sum of their parts. There was a natural symmetry to them, it was unspoken, it was there in every moment, and yet at an event like this, it was playing out in a much more blatant fashion. 

The soft pink of Luna’s dress was reflected in the bright florals of Rolf’s robes. Harry had matched his cravat to Ginny’s clothing in a more conservative effort at coordination, though Hermione believed he could have pulled off a daring look if he had wanted.

Hermione swallowed down the last bite of her sumptuous cake and cursed the Blacks and the Malfoys for being practically perfect at everything. _Would have been too much to ask for that the cake to be ever so slightly not the best thing she had ever eaten?_ As Hermione brushed away the crumbs that she had dropped all over her skirt, because _she_ was not perfect, she stared at the dark green chiffon of her dress. Now that she was sitting she could see her gold sandals poking out from under her many-layered skirts. They were probably a little glitzy for her, but when Ginny had pulled them out in the shop, she’d had to agree that they suited the dress perfectly. 

Hermione chewed her lip. She looked across the room to where Regulus was standing, holding court, and for the first time, she properly considered his dark green robes with prominent guilt buttons. 

Though, whatever conclusion she was on the verge of was fated to wait, as was any potential respite for her poor feet. 

Rolf appeared and smiled down at her before placing one of his hands in front of her face. “I would ask politely, but there is absolutely no chance that I’m leaving here tonight without us embarrassing ourselves together at least once out there.”

He pointed towards the dancefloor where Luna was making a valiant attempt at twirling Ron, despite their respective heights and his obvious reluctance. 

Hermione grinned. “Far be it from me to deny a gentleman his due.” She stood with a wobbly curtsy which Rolf returned with a bow so deep it reminded her of Kreacher. 

“Once more into the fray,” Rolf muttered, and Hermione agreed with a laugh.

* * *

Considering he was at a party hosted by his relentless mother and an interfering cousin, Draco Malfoy was having an _acceptable_ time. He had so far managed to avoid most of the people that he had no interest in speaking to, and he’d caught a glimpse of the Weasel’s horrified face as he’d strutted around the floor with Granger. Nothing made him feel more like his old self than winding up one of his childhood nemesis. Though, where Granger was concerned, maybe Pansy had the right idea. 

Draco had watched her out on the floor, smiling with her friends and chatting to some lesser-known acquaintances. She was certainly doing a better job of pretending to be _fine_ than he was. Sadly, Draco didn’t believe that particular competition was one worth winning. He might still spend an excessive amount of time contemplating crawling inside a bottle, but at least his depression was honest. 

He imagined Hermione would say - if he was ever bold enough to ask why she put on such a front - that she owed it to her friends to try to be happy. Draco believed Hermione did it because she felt she owed it to Potter; she probably thought it was one less albatross around his sacred neck if she didn’t show she was sinking. Draco shook himself from his thoughts. It didn’t do him any good to dwell too long on the golden trio; it took him to dark places.

He had been surprised not to have Potter, or worse, the Weasel, coming over to make some snide remark about his meeting with their brainy friend, but there had been nothing of the sort. Neither of them was calculating enough to be saving the information for another time when it would potentially have a more significant effect. So Draco had to believe now that Hermione _really_ hadn’t said anything.

It was an easier admission to make than he had anticipated. Somehow he had found his way to trusting Hermione Granger, at least where she expressly made a claim. It may not sound like much, but Draco no longer trusted his parents half as much as that, it put Hermione in a very lonely company. Much like himself.

Draco eyed his glass of wine with disdain. It was an excellent vintage, but he found he couldn’t enjoy it, all he could think about was how he would have vastly preferred to be on the hard stuff, but it wasn’t worth risking his mother’s upset, expressed in disappointed glances that had been so infrequent throughout his youth Draco felt they didn’t suit her.

He sighed as he swallowed a large swig, uncouth but necessary, and comforted himself that the night was still relatively young, and it was always good to have somewhere to escalate to if things started to go badly. 

As he leant his head back against the nearest wall, he spotted a figure, one that was inexplicably moving towards him. No one had done that so far that evening, sought him out so directly, at least no one outside of his immediate circle. The blonde was of short stature, wearing a blush coloured dress that highlighted the paleness of her skin in a material that replicated the flowing waves of her so-soft-you-wanted-to-press-your-face-into-it hair.

“Hello, Draco,” she said in a voice that was smoother and more vibrant than the wine he had just inelegantly thrown down his throat.

_Astoria_ Greengrass. It had been so long since Draco had seen Daphne’s little sister that he hadn’t instantly recognised her. He racked his brain as she settled next to him, and he vaguely remembered the last time they had spoken. It had been during the enduring hell of his sixth year when he had felt like the Mark had been eating away at his skin at every waking moment. He had been in the library, drumming his hand against his leg as he panicked over the latest pile of spent books in front of him. None of them had been the answer. It had been one of the days when Draco had started to believe that there was no answer, that he was going to die. 

Astoria had asked him something innocuous, Draco couldn’t remember what it had been, he couldn’t even remember if he had answered her, but in the here and now, seeing her look up at him without disgust marring her features he remembered her having been kind. 

_Thank you_ he wanted to say. _You look beautiful_ would have also been another good option, either would have been true. Yet, the truth was so tricky, so exposing, so unreliable. 

“Where is your sister?” he replied after a beat. “She hasn’t come over to berate me for not sending her letters while she was away. Am I to take it that she hasn’t arrived yet?”

Astoria snorted, or rather she made a sound as close to it as a creature like her ever did. “I believe Daphne is rather _occupied_ this evening,” she said with a pointed look and Draco smirked. 

“Is she now?” he asked, peering around the room to see if he could identify the wizard Daphne was intending on sinking her claws into. The poor fool didn’t know what was about to hit him. 

Draco located Daphne quickly, knowing her preferences for pastels helped. His school mate was dancing with a Slytherin Graduate a few years ahead of their time, and though her dance partner seemed utterly enraptured, Daphne was making doe-eyed glances across the room… to where Regulus was standing. 

Draco nearly laughed, though he wasn’t sure who’s predicament was funnier. “Your sister likes a challenge,” he observed dryly.

Astoria pressed her perfectly neat white teeth into her plump bottom lip. “She does. I’m discovering that it’s something of a family trait.”

Draco suddenly felt somewhat warm trapped in her soft gaze. “Is it indeed?” 

It was as if he had been lifted off the ground and out of his semi-comfortable surroundings to be slung onto a dirt floor at a murky crossroads. Once again, he had choices in front of him but now… now he didn’t trust himself to make the right ones. 

Draco glanced across the room, though whether he was in search of a drink, a lifeline, or a way out he wasn’t sure. He saw Granger dancing with Potter, and he remembered their talks. He believed her when she spoke, believed in her passion and her conviction, even if she was far too ranty to be born most days. Somehow she thought he was worth a second chance, a shot a redemption, and if Hermione believed it, after everything that she had seen of him, maybe she was right. She was right about most things, _the insufferable cow._

Draco looked down at Astoria and at the faint blush that had highlighted the tops of her cheeks. She wasn’t one to be so bold. The thought that someone might risk embarrassment on his account was the final push he needed. 

“Well,” he said finally, his voice cracking just a little as he tried to remember how this patter went. “Shall we get you another drink? I think I might like to hear more.”

* * *

Due to his ever-changing shift pattern, Harry had arrived late and had then been dragged here, there and everywhere by the self-appointed, upper echelons of society who were all keen to have their bit of face time with the ‘chosen one’. It was the usual thing; some wanted to shake his hand, others wanted to get his backing - in words or galleons, sometimes both - for some project they were starting. 

After the war, all of them had been subjected to that sort of thing to some extent; however, predictably, Harry had gotten the worst of it. He handled it better than Hermione ever had, and she would have hated to leave him to it if it weren’t for Ginny. The redhead had an uncanny ability to extract Harry from any conversation, no matter how fervent the person she was up against, and still make it seem as if Harry was _loathed_ to be parted from them. 

Hermione had managed to claim Harry for a dance an hour or so after he’d first arrived. Although neither of them particularly enjoyed the activity, especially in front of so many people, it was the only way they could ensure their conversation would not be immediately interrupted. 

“I feel like a penguin,” Harry grumbled, fiddling with his tie in similar discomfort to the way Ron had yanked at his collar on their way in. There was something wonderfully predictable about her best friends.

Hermione giggled as she remembered blurting the same thing earlier, and Regulus’ affronted expression when she had compared him to a flightless bird without context. There was no such need for explanations with Harry. Though she often wished, with all her heart, that Harry’s upbringing had been different, Hermione couldn't deny that his Muggle roots were a comfort sometimes. It was so much easier to be around people that had the same set of references and insider knowledge that you did. 

“What?” Harry questioned at her unexplained laughter, and Hermione shook her head. 

“Nothing, you just reminded me of a conversation I had earlier.”

“Don’t _nothing_ me,” Harry rebuked. He was clearly having one of his more astute moments, which always seemed to crop up whenever they would be the most inconvenient for Hermione. “Since when did you _giggle_?”

Hermione shrugged. “I think it's the fizz.”

“ _Sure_ it is,” Harry replied sarcastically. “So, how's _Darcy_?”

Hermione stiffened. She had _hoped_ Harry had forgotten all about their conversation over Christmas. Regulus’ sudden appearance at Grimmauld Place, searching for her had reminded Harry of someone, and Hermione had instantly known that he had been alluding to Jane Austen’s most perfect hero, but she had refused to clarify, it wasn’t worth the teasing. It also wasn’t worth admitting that she had spotted the parallels herself, only the _real-life_ version of the famous literary heartthrob hadn’t gone full circle yet - with no guarantee that he ever would - Regulus was still marching around like god's gift. And, unlike Lizzy Bennet, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to despise his pride or anything else about him. 

“You remembered who you were thinking of?” Hermione replied lightly. She caught the flash in Harry’s eyes, and she knew she had been caught. 

Harry grinned. “I knew at the time.”

“Harry James Potter that expression is far too smug for my liking,” Hermione huffed. 

Harry was unmoved; her bluster hadn’t affected him in years. “You have to let me get my wins where I can, Mione. It’s not often I get one over on you.”

Hermione sniffed, but felt that now that the matter was raised some clarification was in order. “I see where you were going, but in my opinion, it doesn’t quite fit. Mr Darcy was haughty-”

“Which Regulus is,” Harry insisted.

“-Yes,” Hermione agreed impatiently. “But, _if you had let me finish,_ I would have said that Darcy’s behaviour is born out of social awkwardness whereas Regulus-”

“Is an overconfident twat?” Harry supplied and Hermione hit his arm. 

“Stop interrupting me,” she fumed and then deflated in an instant. “But, yes… I suppose… something like that.”

Harry steered them a few couples over to avoid a wizard that had been trying to buy his way out of questioning by pushing a hefty donation towards the Auror’s combat unit. Once they were ‘safe’, they once again fell into a comfortable silence. 

“Does it matter?” Harry suddenly asked just as Hermione was beginning to contemplate the hour getting late. 

“Does what matter?”

“That he’s a bit of a twat?”

Hermione was brought up short. “It should,” she replied eventually, wishing she had a better response. 

“Probably,” Harry agreed, “but it doesn’t mean _it will_.”

“So what do I do?” Hermione implored, and her friends' eyes widened to a comical degree. 

“You’re asking me? Bloody hell Mione you really must be lost.”

“Harry,” she chastised softly, and he apologised with a ruffle of his unruly hair. His features softened and just like that he was the boy that had come skidding into the girl’s bathroom to save her from a troll, brandishing his wand with no idea how to use it. 

“You’ve been dealing with overconfident twats your whole life Hermione, and if all else goes wrong you could always punch him in the face, it’s worked before.”

Hermione giggled again; she couldn’t help it. Typical Harry, why overthink a problematic issue when you could already be knee-deep in the ramifications of an unconsidered action? “I’ll keep that option in my back pocket, just in case.” 

* * *

It felt like forever before Regulus saw Hermione again, they had been separated by a crowd of well-wishers and the growing crush of the party. As time marched on, Regulus’ temper worsened. He’d never been one for such events when he was younger, but he’d known that any requested command appearance was far from optional. He’d done his duty and completed a lap of the room and buggered off before the adults could disgrace themselves. He was learning that the expectations were a lot more demanding when you were supposed to have some level of control over the evening. 

Finally, Hermione appeared out of the crowd, mercifully on her own, and she was headed towards a refreshment table. Her elegant hair arrangement had wilted, no doubt contributed to by the weight of her braids and the growing heat of the room, and loose curls were escaping down the back of her neck. It was pleasant to have her wandering around in such an _undone_ manner inside the safety of his home, but the myriad people also present put a dampener on his enjoyment of it. 

Regulus had found himself serving cups of punch to the society matrons while they all spoke of his favourable features and their delightfully unattached daughters. Regulus valiantly tried to look interested while he wished them all mute. He had long understood that there was nothing he could say to derail these conversations, even as a well known Death Eater he’d had no hope of intimidating these women. As a recently returned heir of a noble house, he had no hope, his bachelor blood was very much in the water, and the sharks were circling. 

Hastily pouring another cup, Regulus extracted himself from a particularly persistent character and stepped next to Hermione who politely declined his offering.

“Thank you, I’m fine,” she said, raising her glass. Regulus noted the distinct pattern on the flute and realised that it was part of his private collection that lived in the drinks cabinet at the back of his study. They had belonged to his father and were undoubtedly a cut above what they were using for routine guests. Kreacher was clearly up to his usual tricks. 

“I see you are,” he replied wryly without further elaboration. “How is Potter?”

Regulus asked, feigning politeness, even though he honestly couldn't have cared less. He’d _hated_ James Potter, but he couldn’t summon the same vehement dislike for his ‘famous’ offspring. Harry seemed to lack all of his father's arrogance and yet none of his looks, it was… puzzling to converse with him for an extended period. He wondered how Sirius ever coped with it. 

Regulus had seen them dancing together and had decided that Hermione had been more comfortable with Potter than she had been with anyone else. They didn’t melt into each other's frames like lovers, but there was an ease about them, even when taking into account their inexpert moves. Regulus had been envious of their tranquillity. It hadn’t been the white-hot rage he’d felt when he saw Marcus hold her, it was more profound than that.

“Complaining about being dressed up like the Victorians,” Hermione replied with a little laugh. “Formal clothes aren’t his thing.”

“I had gathered,” Regulus replied, trying not to sound too insulting but not managing it. “And you? Are formal clothes more to your taste?”

Hermione looked as if she was giving some serious consideration to the question, and it made Regulus take a step closer into her soothing orbit. “More so than the boys,” she offered eventually, “but I haven’t had that many opportunities to get dressed up, so I’m not sure. I imagine I would find it dull if I had to do it all the time.”

“Whether you like it or not it suits you,” Regulus ventured daring to drift his fingers near an escaped curl without touching it. “You look beautiful, Miss Granger, I should have said that earlier.”

Hermione blushed, and her hands moved unconsciously to smooth over her upper arms. Regulus felt rather proud of the goosebumps that had risen there.

“Not just tolerable?” she said as she bit her lip and Regulus was startled out of the moment by his confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” she grinned to herself. “Muggle joke.”

Regulus nodded, bemused as to what she could have been alluding to and then choose to forget it. He was standing with her, and the world around them was doing that delicious thing where it began to distort and blur until he could almost imagine it was no longer there. 

He watched Hermione’s fingers as they repositioned on his expensive glass, as her warm flesh absently, unknowingly, collected droplets of condensation that had formed on the outside. Regulus wondered if she would mind placing that hand against his neck and cooling the warmth that was rising there, but he didn’t think there would be a delicate way to ask. He imagined something of his thoughts must have played out on his face, an intensity that he couldn't hide, Hermione’s pupils blew wide, but she didn’t back away. It was intoxicating that she wasn’t afraid, not that she had any reason to be; he would do nothing to hurt her. 

“Regulus,” an insistent voice broke the spell that Hermione was weaving over his mind and body and Regulus stepped back suddenly aware that the music in the background had changed and the people around them had moved. He watched Hermione’s chest heave slightly as she also took a step back and were he not in the middle of a ballroom he would have done everything within his power to eliminate their sudden distance. 

Daphne Greengrass glided over to them, and in one smooth motion, she pressed a kiss to his cheek while positioning herself in the best possible place to shut Hermione out of their grouping entirely. Her hair hadn’t wilted, it looked exactly the same as it had when Regulus had first seen her enter through the large doors. Daphne’s eyes sparkled as she openly regarded him, ready to please, ready to be pleasing. Maybe it would have had more of an effect if his heart were not still beating out of his chest, recovering from Hermione’s mere proximity. 

Regulus saw Hermione’s face shutter, and he shifted to the side, ready to place an arm around her and draw her back in, but Daphne placed a hand on his arm, it was an utterly unexpected and familiar gesture from someone he had only met once, and Regulus managed not to shoo her lest she crumpled his sleeve. 

“Regulus, I’ve been trying to get you _alone_ all evening, you haven’t given me a date yet for our dinner. I believe we mentioned a… _more private_ occasion this time.”

He heard more than saw Hermione take a deep breath, and when he turned, she was squaring her shoulders and finishing her drink. “I best be going,” she said with forced politeness. 

She turned on her heel and walked with a clear purpose, away from him. Regulus barely shouted an excuse over his shoulder before he all but chased after her. He caught her quickly; he tried to reason that was because he wanted to catch her more than she wanted to get away, but he discounted it. Whatever their relative intents, his legs were a good deal longer. 

“Miss Granger, I don’t believe we had finished speaking,” he implored as loudly as he dared. He wanted to hold onto her, her arm, her skirt anything to encourage her to stay still for a moment, but he held himself back. Regulus had seen how quickly she’d moved to her holster earlier that night and he had never been called an idiot. 

“I wouldn't want to intrude,” Hermione replied in a voice so utterly devoid of her usual emotion Regulus had to stare into her eyes to convince himself it was still her. “You to looked perfect, standing together like that, _just like a picture_.”

Regulus’ mind stuttered to a halt, and then he remembered that picture in the Prophet. _But surely she couldn’t think? But even if she did, she had never indicated…_

Hermione made to disappear again, but this time Regulus had been anticipating it. He moved quickly, too quick for her to credit and scurried around Hermione until he was blocking her path.

“Miss Granger?” he implored softly, daring her to look up at him as he closed the distance between them. 

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice held the most minute of trembles, but Regulus still heard it. 

After an eternity of waiting her out, she met his gaze, and he felt as caught as ever. “Are you running away from me?”

She sagged. “No, I’m not but I-”

“Hermione,” a booming voice interrupted, and a Regulus almost bit through his tongue in his attempt to stop himself from uttering a nasty bit of wandless magic. 

“Hermione, it’s been forever. I heard your news! So excited you are going to be part of the team after graduation. Are you free?” 

_Who the hell was this? And what was he talking about? Wasn’t she joining the Ministry? Why in the name of Merlin had Narcissa invited so many single men to this event?_

The boy who had appeared looked to be about the same age as Hermione and Regulus stood grave and close as he greeted her overtly warmly. They shared a quick embrace, and Hermione then took a step back, so Regulus was no longer unincluded. 

“Of course, Terry,” Hermione replied patiently before waving her hand between them. “Terry Boot this is Regulus Black, Regulus Black, Terry Boot.”

The newly identified Terry Boot offered his hand, and Regulus took it reluctantly. 

“Good to meet you mate, great party,” Boot commended before he looked at Hermione expectedly.

Hermione glanced at Regulus as though she had something to say, but no words were forthcoming. Regulus took advantage of the silence; he had a few of his own. “I would rather you didn't dance with _every_ man here.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed, and Regulus almost took a step back from her overt hostility. “Would you?” She all but hissed. “I'll keep that in mind.” Then she leant forward to grip his arm. The gesture was obviously meant to hint at Daphne’s earlier hold on his person, even if Hermione had been trying for subtly, which was unlikely, her face gave her intent away. “Do remember to tell Daphne she looks _beautiful_ , won’t you. She has been trying to speak to you _privately_ after all.”

* * *

Later, after Terry Boot nearly had them both on the floor following an attempt at what he later told her was a foxtrot, Hermione was saved from the beginnings of a very dull conversation with a witch that Augusta Longbottom would have described as stern-looking. The only problem was, Hermione was ‘saved’ by Narcissa Malfoy, and while she was far from _boring,_ she wasn’t precisely Hermione’s ideal rescuer. _Out of the frying pan._

“Miss Granger, it is so wonderful to see you here. Tell me, how do you like the house?”

Hermione managed a few platitudes, making sure not to name anything too specific as she was sure she wouldn’t know the ‘proper’ name for all of the furniture and she had no interest in finding out what it cost, otherwise she was mostly silent. 

In her defence, it was hard to concentrate on what Mrs Malfoy was saying when her mind was playing back images she only vaguely recalled from when she was being tortured at Malfoy Manor. Hermione could remember Narcissa’s disinterested, cold eyes as she had laid broken on her receiving room floor. Maybe Narcissa’s unexpected politeness had come from the deduction that today at least Hermione was unlikely to make much of a mess. Hermione imagined it was time-consuming to get blood out of real wood. 

Just as she felt herself losing her grip entirely, Hermione registered a comforting hand on her back, and she felt both disgustingly grateful and incredibly ashamed at how much she relaxed because of Harry’s sudden appearance. 

“Are you okay, Mione?” he asked her seriously.

She wanted to say no, but she still had her pride, pride and her sense of duty to her friends. Harry didn't need another burden, and he would never believe the _fine_ image of herself she presented so diligently if she went to pieces now. 

“I'm fine. Thank you, Harry,” she managed with a wan smile. 

“Okay,” Harry replied. He believed her, but he was still wary, and Hermione loved him for both. “If you need me I'll only be a couple of steps away, no more,” he said with a hard look in Mrs Malfoy’s direction before he retreated to Ginny who was stood a short distance away, not attempting to hide the fact she was watching their conversation intently.

“And to think,” Narcissa drawled, regaining Hermione’s attention, “we are all led to believe that chivalry is dead.”

Hermione felt very tired. “Look, Mrs Malfoy-

“- _Narcissa_ , please.”

“Okay,” Hermione replied, drawing out the word slowly to cover her surprise. “That might take a while to get used to.”

Draco’s mother eyed her speculatively, and Hermione immediately knew she was outmatched, even on a good day she wasn’t up to conversational fencing with the Malfoy matriarch, and after her most recent conversation come argument with Regulus she didn’t have it in her to pretend to try. 

Hermione sighed. “I know this is not the way you lot behave, but it’s been a long night, and I am tired of pretending I know what everyone is really saying. What can I do for you, Mrs Malfoy?”

Narcissa smiled. “Miss Granger, I’ll think you’ll find that your… _forthrightness_ is surprisingly welcome. As to your question,” she shrugged, and it was the most elegant movement Hermione had ever seen. “I would like to invite you to come and view this home properly. I am conscious that you will not have seen very much of it this evening and I have done too much here not to show it off.”

Hermione considered asking _why_ Narcissa wanted _her_ to come, but she thought better of it. Mrs Malfoy had already been relatively frank, at least compared to her usual standards and even if she did give her some answers, Hermione would have no way of deducing the truth of them. 

“Wouldn't Regulus mind?” she asked. She remembered her storming off earlier and couldn’t imagine he would have been in a rush to welcome her into his home. Hermione cringed when she realised she had mentioned the picture in the Prophet. She wished she hadn’t done that. She hated people knowing when they had affected her. Even if that picture had shown Regulus ardently mauling Daphne up against a wall outside of the restaurant, she would have had no real cause to be upset with him. Unfortunately, logic was not a particularly effective healer, no matter how liberally applied, when it came to matters of the heart. 

“My dear,” Narcissa said, startling Hermione with her choice of term. “Regulus would probably never know, and in any case, it's all my work.”

“I'm sure but-” Hermione tried, desperate to deflect the invite as best she could. 

“I think _Kreacher_ would appreciate it,” Narcissa said with an arched brow, “if you could find the time.”

_Manipulative cow_. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest in defiance even as she admitted defeat. “In which case, _Narcissa_ ,” _that was going to be harder to remember to say than Draco_ , “I would love to.”

* * *

After a tense few hours, Hermione took refuge next to Pansy and let her acerbic observations about those around them wash over her rattled nerves. Pansy it seemed could be drawn into commentary with the smallest of provocations, and it meant Hermione could speak very little without drawing attention to herself. 

Half an hour or so past in such fashion until a nearby free-standing candle was knocked over and the muted clatter drew the attention of both girls towards a small alcove where luxe curtains had been placed over leaded light patio doors. But the decor, although stunning, was not what held their interest. Bathed in the glowing moonlight, Marcus Flint had apparently found his match - at least for the evening - in a rather demonstrative sixth-year Hufflepuff Hermione recognised from the great hall.

Neither Pansy or Hermione said anything as the girl transitioned from kissing Marcus’ mouth to nibbling at his stubble lined jaw, and they remained silent as Marcus fumbled with the curtain and mercifully drew it closed. 

“Well,” Pansy began, and Hermione forced her tongue to unstick from the roof of her mouth.

“I think Marcus might... He might not be the one for you,” she finally managed to stumble out. “He’s just a bit…?”

“Smooth?” Pansy offered, and Hermione considered that ‘smooth’ was a far more favourable description than she had been considering. 

“As good a word as any, I suppose.” _Who said she couldn’t be diplomatic?_

“It was a nice idea, while it lasted,” Pansy sighed.

Hermione spluttered while taking a sip of her drink. “It was?” she asked horrified. _Diplomacy was overrated_. She knew she had been considering Marcus as a match for Pansy only hours before, but that was before she knew anything about him. Hermione was confident she could throw a stone at random, in the middle of Diagon Alley, and hit a better option without even trying. Pansy didn’t look so confident, she shrugged. 

“Relatively good looking, from a reasonable family, acceptable career prospects and doesn’t intimidate me intellectually,” she replied dryly, counting off ‘attributes’ on her fingers. “What more could a girl ask for?” 

Hermione wondered if basic manners and the potential for monogamy were too much to ask, but she didn’t voice her criticism. While she may not have understood the world Pansy came from, she had learnt not to attack it as vehemently as she once would have, for Pansy’s sake. 

As close as they were to the shenanigans behind the tapestry, Hermione began to see movements she didn’t want to analyse too closely and turned her back. 

“But what about the spell?” she asked, as Pansy snapped at a passing waiter to refresh their drinks. 

Pansy snorted. “He didn’t exactly _land in my lap_ , did he, Granger? In most cases, it is just a bit of nonsense.”

Hermione couldn't fault that logic; in fact, she had no wish to. She couldn't wholly trust the kind of random magic that would have put her friend with someone like Marcus Flint, even if he did have very nice teeth now.

When a harried-looking waiter appeared, Pansy went back to her previous past time, and Hermione realised that she couldn’t have been that affected. For all that Pansy criticised Hermione’s inability to lie convincingly, Hermione had noticed that Pansy was no better, especially in situations where she was genuinely hurt about something. 

Because the general populace thought nothing of being social it wasn’t long before Hermione’s attempt at quiet conversation was interrupted again, only this time she wasn’t the intended target. 

Ernie Macmillian flounced over, carrying a large tumbler of whiskey and his usual air of impervious self-importance. Hermione internally sighed when she saw the various food stains marking his puce coloured cravat, and she smirked to herself. If she had noticed, that meant Pansy had, and she couldn’t imagine anything that would impress her friend less. 

“Go away,” Pansy demanded in an offhand fashion without even looking up.

Ernie looked affronted, Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. Ernie was always _offended_ by something, accept his opinions. “I only wanted to say that you look nice.”

“And now your ambition is now achieved,” Pansy replied, waving him off as you would a mild irritant.

Ernie turned away from Pansy and focused on Hermione, his expression unsatisfied. “Can’t you do something about her?”

Hermione smiled and thought about all the shit he’d caused for Harry over the years. She wasn’t as blunt as Pansy, not by a long shot, but she wasn’t _nice_ either, and she’d spent a significant amount of time wishing she could develop a spell that would allow her to punch men straight in some actually manifested version of their fragile egos.

“I thought about getting her a ‘fuck the patriarchy’ pin, which I argued would act as a warning to the general public but she says she doesn’t believe in pins, as they ruin outfits.”

“Keep saying _pin,_ Hermione, but we all know you mean _badge_ and as I’ve told you a hundred times you cannot be trusted with a badge maker,” Pansy said authoritatively.

 “So not fair,” Hermione muttered.

Ernie snarled something under his breath, but as he also left so, neither witch could be bothered to care too much. They certainly wouldn't be wasting any time tracking him down to smooth out his ruffled feathers. 

They were alone no more than a minute when once again their peaceful conversation was cast in shadow by a sauntering wizard, only this time it was Cormac McLaggen. Hermione supposed she should have been surprised but she wouldn’t, Cormac was probably one of the few wizards she had ever known that would have made a play so quickly after another had been so speedily rejected. 

The years had been kind to Cormac, and hard enough on Hermione for her to fully appreciate just how unkind she had been to him during their brief foray into dating. Knowing Cormac the little that she did, Hermione hoped he wouldn't hold it against her.

Like Rolf, he had gone for a bolder option on the robe front; though in comparison Cormac had dipped his toe into the sartorial waters while Rolf had apparently bathed in them. Cormac was dressed in a stylish outfit in a claret hue that brought out the wispy lightness of his blonde hair and the iridescent blue of his eyes. 

After a brief nod to her, which Hermione returned, he moved closer to her friend with a familiar purpose. “Pansy?” He asked slash greeted, managing to sound both hesitant and strangely confident. “I wondered if I might trouble you for a dance?”

Pansy gave Cormac the once over in a casual way, and she agreed, rather readily if Hermione was any judge. She just about hid her smile as Pansy made a show of putting down her glass and raising her eyebrows in question as Cormac waited for her a couple of steps away. 

“Watch out for wandering hands and an overeager tongue,” Hermione muttered casually, but she had to look away to ensure she wouldn’t laugh when she saw the disbelief painted all over Pansy’s face. 

“You have got so much explaining to do when we get home.”

Hermione nodded. “Gladly, ask him about vomiting on Professor Snape’s shoes would you? I never got to hear the full story on that.”

Pansy smile widened before she turned to look at Cormac. “You know Granger, I just might enjoy this one.”

* * *

Hermione flexed her toes as much as she was able in her uncomfortable heels and fought the urge to scowl. Despite what the girls had told her, this night had not been pain-free. She was sure that if wizards were the ones who wore heels, they would have already allocated endless government funding into inventing a more sound cushioning charm. As it was, taking her shoes off and putting her feet into an old washing up bowl to soak would be the best cure she could look forward to. 

Hermione stepped out of the gloriously gilded ballroom and into the corridor where Ginny, Harry and Rolf were already collecting their various coats and extra bags from the house elves that were standing in wait. 

Hermione regretted not picking up a jacket earlier, but she’d had no idea how late they would stay, however, her thoughts were interrupted by the warmth of a large robe being gently lifted onto her shoulders. She turned in surprise only for it to be doubled when she discovered Ron behind her, looking somewhat satisfied with himself. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, “are you sure you’ll be alright?” 

Ron brushed off her concerned glance towards his shirt sleeves. “You forget I’m an Auror now, made of stern stuff me.”

Ginny made a snorting sound that drew the attention of everyone, even those that weren’t in their group. “Heavens, where's my hanky?” She called out as she mock sobbed into her hand, in a startlingly accurate impression of her mother. 

“What’s the matter with you, Red?” Pansy asked as she sauntered amongst them, not having to bother describing her belongings before two house-elves practically fell over each other to fetch them. 

“I’m sorry, we were having such a wonderful evening,” Ginny wailed cartoonishly. “It’s just, Ron, he’s all grown up and acting not like my brother at all. It’s like… he’s a fully functioning adult at long last.” She theatrically dabbed at her eyes a final time before giving a little bow when her ‘performance’ was greeted by uproarious laughter. 

“I don’t know why I call any of you my friends,” Ron huffed, and Hermione stifled her mirth. She rested her chin on his shoulder, though even with heels she had to lean up on her tippy toes. 

“I _appreciate_ you, Ronald,” she said as earnestly as she could muster only for Ron to stiffen uncomfortably.

“Merlin, right, everyone go back to taking the piss, being sincere just doesn't suit us.”

The laughter broke out again; only this time, it felt more good-natured as they were _all_ in on the joke. However, the humour abruptly died when the man of the evening, as Ron would have called him, suddenly appeared in the corridor, waving off his little entourage of eager helpers to address them.

“You are not leaving?”

Hermione registered nothing but surprise in Regulus’ voice, but still, she pulled Ron’s robe over herself a little more tightly. “We are,” she confirmed, sounding every bit as weary as she felt. “It's nearly two in the morning, and if I don’t get back to my carriage, I'll turn back into a pumpkin.”

For the first time that evening, Regulus didn’t seem amused by her attempts at humour. 

“I had thought… _had hoped_ that we would have more time to speak,” Regulus admitted quietly as the rest of her friends did a perfect job of pretending the conversation wasn’t happening in their hearing.

 “At a ball, you were hosting?” Hermione queried gently.

Regulus sighed. “You are right; I should have considered that. But you could always stay for a little while longer? I will have more time once more of the guests leave.”

“Thanks for the invite, Regulus,” Ginny replied, calling over her shoulder, even though it was apparent to all he hadn't been talking about the rest of them. “But I’m afraid we have to decline, we’ve got an after-party to get to.”

“I see.”

Regulus was unimpressed, but if he was going to say anything more, he was cut off by Luna’s appearance in the hall. They had been using a pre-agreed hand signal to indicate when they were ready to get going, but Luna had been trapped talking to some of the more long-winded Ministry types, which was saying something. 

Luna moved towards them, pulled her headband off and rubbed at her temples. She’d already taken her shoes off and had looped the ankle straps around the built-in belt of her dress so she could keep her hands free. Hermione instantly wished she’d thought of that before. People could say what they liked about Luna, but not being tied down to convention certainly made for some moments of pure genius. 

“Would you like me to carry you, my darling?” Rolf asked as he held his arms out for his girlfriend. In spite of herself, Hermione felt a massive sigh rise in her throat. 

 “That's very white-knighty of you,” Luna giggled as Rolf dutifully shrunk her unneeded belongings and placed them into his pocket. 

"Well, while you were saying goodbye, Ron’s been raising the bar out here. I think I’m going to need to buck my ideas up if I want to be talked of favourably in your dorm over the next few weeks.”

The group laughed with one notable exception, and after a moment's hesitation, Hermione leant forward to take Regulus’ hand. She mainly blamed the fizz for her boldness, although at least the smallest fraction of it was down to the way the light from the ballroom cut across his face as they stood together. 

“Goodbye, Regulus. Thank you for a wonderful party. You have a lovely home.”

Regulus seemed to grit his teeth, but then he shook it off and regarded her with a much more neutral expression. “I had _sincerely_ hoped you would enjoy it.”

“I _sincerely_ did,” Hermione said with a small smile which Regulus returned with a quirk of his lips. 

Hermione squeezed his hand before letting go with more reluctance than she was prepared to show. As she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her back, willing her to turn around and look at him, but for once, it didn’t intimidate her, if anything, she felt powerful. 

Hermione let herself sink into the warmth of Ron’s jacket as Pansy’s clipped heels sped to catch up with her. “Does it taste good, Hermione?” she asked with interest.

“What?” she replied, her voice muffled by the robes she was too comfortable to dislodge from around her face.

Pansy smirked. “Winning?”

Hermione thought back to Regulus’ intense gaze and the feeling of her hand in his. She’d been expecting him to be cooler, but he was so unbelievably warm. “I suppose that depends on what the objective of our battle was.”

“Come again?”

Hermione shrugged, and the movement was barely visible due to her borrowed layers. “I’ll explain later.”

* * *

Regulus watched them go, furious with himself. He had been _convinced_ at the beginning of the evening that things were going well, he had managed several conversations with Hermione, and she had seemed agreeable to his attentions and yet…. And yet, he was beginning to realise that Pansy Parkinson might have had other motivations than a desire to be a complete bitch when she had taken him to task. 

He studied Hermione as she fell into step beside Pansy and Ginny, with Luna twirling her way behind them. 

In the silence, he wasn’t expecting an attack, and so he lurched forward as an elbow roughly collided with his torso. Weasley sauntered past, holding his arms up in conciliation. “Sorry, Regulus mate, didn’t see you there,” he said, sounding anything but. 

Weasley stepped back and made a show of following Regulus’ line of sight before he rounded back on him. “Just to be clear - after all, we all know how much you love an unwelcome midnight appearance - we’re all going back to Rolf’s, and you're not invited.”

There were a few beats of silence in which Weasley looked defiant and Potter, who had been trailing after him, looked awkward. “Thanks for the party. Have a good one,” he finally offered before he steered his red-headed friend away. 

During the distraction, Hermione had disappeared, and Regulus cursed Weasley anew. He’d suspected from the first moment he’d met him that he was a complete wanker and his opinion hadn’t improved on further acquaintance. He was still better than Matty though.

When the last of the merry little group turned out of sight, Regulus felt a cool glass pressed into his fingers. His cousin had followed him out there, and he had brought refreshments. Regulus looked down at the amber liquid and then back up at Draco. He didn’t imagine Narcissa would be happy that he was hitting the whisky. 

“Save it for tonight, would you?” Draco said, cutting off any lecture Regulus might have had planned. “You looked like you needed it.”

Regulus took a swig; he couldn't argue with that logic. 

They stood together in silence as Regulus tried to reassemble his stoicism before he rejoined the party that no longer held any interest for him while Draco appeared to be very focused on the end of the corridor. 

“So that's how it is?” he asked eventually, and Regulus pulled his eyes away from a scurrying elf to regard his cousin quizzically. 

“That's how what is?”

“Granger,” Draco replied knowingly and without emotion.

Regulus froze. His first impulse was to weave a quickly constructed fabrication, but he didn’t have the heart to. Also, he had the distinct feeling that after he’d considered his position over the next few days, things were going to start getting a lot clearer for all involved. 

“Yes, it’s Miss Granger,” he admitted eventually. 

“How’s it going?” Draco asked with interest and Regulus gave in to the urge to rub his hand over his face. 

“It depends entirely on when you ask.”

“And as I asked just now?”

“Not especially well,” Regulus replied reluctantly. 

Regulus took a sip of his drink and ignored his cousin’s shaking shoulders. 

“You know,” Draco began, barely holding on to his obvious mirth, “you could always invite her for tea?”

“Draco,” Regulus said, feeling as old as his exact age and the years he’d missed added together.

“Yes, cousin?” Draco asked, clearly delighted with himself. 

Regulus pushed the empty glass back at him as he straightened the jacket of his robe. “Fuck off.” 

Draco’s laughter followed him back into the ballroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So there we have it, the second part of the ball. I hope you enjoyed it. In the next chapter, the girls are back at Hogwarts, and there’s another guest lecturer, Phineas is back! And Hermione takes a tour about Regulus’ manor (not a euphemism! Bye x

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading, prepare for the tone to change a little in the next chapter as we find out about the witches that have had young Regulus Black land in their laps.


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